The Last Rainmaker

by Scott Blade

  He took it with his right hand, fumbled with the clasp and clipped it onto the outside of his bomber jacket. He had to readjust the jacket because it nearly fell back off his left shoulder. His cast was in a sling, tucked underneath the inside of the jacket. Left sleeve hung, empty.

  “You coming?” Widow asked.

  “No, sir. Just you. My rank stops me here.”

  Stops you here? Widow thought.

  “Just head through those doors. Stare into the camera. They’ll buzz for you. Someone will tell you where to go.”

  The WO saluted Widow after all, and turned and drove off in his car. He didn’t wait to make sure Widow didn’t get cold feet and take off in another direction. Then again, where the hell else would he go?

  CHAPTER 7

  THE WHOLE PROCESS seemed like overkill. By the time Widow arrived at what he guessed was his destination, he had gone through two electronic checkpoints, without armed guards, until he finally arrived outside a door that led up a bland staircase. At that point, there was one sentry. A military MP. Army, not Navy.

  The MP asked him to stay still for a pat down. Which surprised Widow. They were on a major military base and he had been escorted by a warrant officer, straight from the hospital, straight to a plane and then straight to here.

  The MP patted him down, checked his cast, all his pockets, and even the inside of his empty jacket sleeve for any weapons. Afterward, the MP asked him to take his shoes off.

  Widow said, “You serious?”

  “ ‘Fraid so, sir.”

  Another sir. What the hell was he getting himself into?

  Widow sighed and pushed his boots off with one foot and then the other. He didn’t want to use his one good hand because that would’ve meant that he would be sitting on the floor. He stepped back out of the boots and stood there. The MP bent down, picked them up. Widow wondered how important security was to them. One sentry and he bent over right in front of Widow. If he had wanted to, a fast knee to the guy’s head and Widow could’ve taken him out cold.

  No need for any of that.

  The MP finished checking his boots and then picked them up. He handed them over to Widow.

  Widow took them with his good hand and switched them over to his left. Just kept them in his left. He stayed in his socks.

  “Go on up, sir.”

  Widow stayed quiet and walked through the open door, stepped onto the bottom step. He felt the cold metal through his socks.

  The top of the stairs opened straight up into an unused set of military surveillance equipment, counterterrorism stuff. There were dozens of TV screens, lit up. Some were playing American news channels; others played foreign ones. They were all muted. English captions turned on.

  The whole floor was dark, except for the light from monitors. He checked them out as he passed.

  Other monitors showed surveillance video from around the world. There was some CCTV stuff. As Widow stepped out past a set of unmanned cubicles, he saw multiple rows and aisles of the same kind of thing. This was some kind of counterterrorist unit or plain old counterintelligence, he guessed.

  There was no one in sight, but Widow heard voices at the other end of the room. He looked and saw an open door. A bright artificial light beckoned him to it.

  He threaded the aisles and rows of cubicles and electronic equipment and stepped into the room.

  It was an Army conference room, which meant that the walls were painted green. The carpet was green. And a long, oval table at the center was plain wood.

  Huddled at the start of the table were three people: two men and one woman.

  One man and the woman were in dress uniforms. They were Army.

  They both turned and faced him as he walked in. The man was an older guy. Probably close to sixty. He was tall and had a sense of refinement about him, like a man who came from poverty, got paid, and discovered the better side of life.

  He was a one-star general. Widow saw that from his patches.

  The woman was a sergeant. She held a notepad in her hand, clamped shut, with a ball-point pen in the other. She had a pair of black-framed glasses on and was thirty years younger than the general, easily. Widow assumed that she was his assistant or desk sergeant or whatever.

  The other guy was the only one, besides Widow, to wear street clothes. He faced the other direction. He sat on the edge of the table, one leg waving under him, slowly.

  All Widow could make out about him was that he was average height, a medium build, and he had thick, curly hair, which looked more like wool than human hair. The light reflected countless curls of gray mixed in with jet-black hair.

  In front of the room were a large monitor and a camera on a tripod, facing the room.

  The general said, “Ah, Mr. Widow.”

  The man with the wooly hair stayed where he was, but Widow sensed he became suddenly uneasy. His shoulders tensed under a sleeveless zip vest, black. The guy didn’t turn around.

  “My name is Sutherland. Tom Sutherland. This is my assistant, Sergeant Andy Swan. We’re both US Army.”

  Widow stayed where he was.

  “Come on in, Commander.”

  Sutherland summoned him with one hand. But the other, his left, rested on his belt, near a holstered M9 Berretta.

  The firearm was loose in his holster. It was pulled up higher than it should have been, which meant that either Sutherland was a poor excuse for a man who had access to an Army-issued weapon or he had just slipped it back into the holster, not pushing it in all the way.

  Widow guessed it was the latter because the holster’s safety snap was undone.

  Widow’s vision must have cleared up because he could see the red indicator dot on the side of the M9. The safety was off. The hammer was pulled back. The gun had a chambered round. It was set to single-action fire mode and ready to roll.

  Brigadier generals do not usually carry firearms anyway. Not walking around their own office.

  The M9 was there because of Widow. Had to be. The sentry from below had radioed up, told them that Widow was on his way. Sutherland drew his weapon and disengaged the fire safety. Then he readied a bullet to fire.

  “Come in,” Sutherland repeated.

  Widow stepped in, kept one eye on the M9, an old habit with or without the knowledge that it was there because of him.

  He walked in about five feet, smelled hints of cigar smoke. Probably from the general’s uniform.

  “Commander, I hate to be direct, but I need to ask you if you’re going to be civil.”

  “What the hell is this about?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  Widow said nothing.

  “Please.”

  “I’ve been dragged out of a hospital bed, flown all the way out here. Not to mention, I was in a train wreck. I’ve got a broken arm. I’m concussed. And a little irritated that I’m even here. I’m being as civil as you’re going to get, General.”

  Sutherland nodded and said, “Fair enough. I guess.”

  “So, just cut to the chase?”

  Sutherland glanced over at the face of the man with his back to Widow. He nodded.

  The wooly-haired man stood up from the edge of the table. Slipped both his hands into the pockets of his vest, taking them out of sight, and turned around slowly.

  Widow stood still, questioning his eyes for a long moment because he was staring at a man that he’d once warned.

  Never let me see you again, he had said to him.

  “Hello, Widow,” the wooly-haired man said with a hint of a Spanish accent.

  Widow said nothing. He glanced at the M9 Beretta in its holster, safety off, ready to fire. Ready to kill. But was Sutherland ready to use it?

  “We need your help?” he had said. They had gone through a lot of taxpayer expense and trouble and manpower to get him our here. Not-to-mention, jet fuel.

  Was Sutherland really going to pull that gun? Probably. But would he shoot an unarmed man for doing what Widow was about to do?

&
nbsp; Only one way to find out.

  With his boots in his left hand, Widow’s face gave nothing away, not that that would’ve mattered because it would all be over in a second and a half.

  Widow stepped forward, left foot, his socks sliding a bit, but not enough to kill his momentum. He twisted at the waist like a pitcher gearing up to throw a fastball. His right hand bunched up into a massive fist. Doctor Green had mentioned all his broken bones and scars and doubled bone scars. She never mentioned the ones on his hand and under the skin on his knuckles. He had calluses bunched up like a set of natural-formed knuckledusters.

  He heaved with devastating force and whipped forward from his shoulders and plowed a thunderous right hook straight at the wooly-haired guy’s face.

  It wasn’t enough force to take out an eye or push a nasal bone up into the guy’s brain, but it was enough to break bones. No doubt about that.

  The wooly-haired guy was expecting it. He anticipated it like he knew from the second Widow walked into the building that he was going to break bones in his face.

  He anticipated the attack, but he had underestimated the speed. Maybe he assumed Widow was older now. Maybe he assumed Widow was out of practice. Maybe he assumed Widow was weakened from the crash, from the drugs. He was wrong. On all accounts.

  There was no time to dodge. No way. He was getting punched in the face. No question about that.

  The next best thing was to moderate the power from the blow, to alleviate the damage. His training was all he had to rely on.

  The wooly-haired guy moved as fast as he could. He tucked his chin down and threw his arms up to absorb the impact of the punch.

  It half-worked. Sort of.

  Widow’s fist punched straight through, but it impacted the wooly-haired guy’s left forearm first. Then the jumbled mess folded back into the wooly-haired guy’s face. He went tumbling back, over the table, off his feet.

  Widow wound back, fast, ready to step forward and stomp on the wooly-haired guy’s throat while he lay on the ground.

  But that was all put to bed, instantly, because Sutherland had drawn the M9 Beretta after all. He shoved it in Widow’s face.

  “Hold it, son! I’ll shoot you where you stand!”

  Widow looked up. Looked in the general’s eyes. Saw two things. First, there was terror. Not the kind of terror that a non-soldier experienced when confronted with an assaulter. That was the kind of fear only untrained citizens experienced.

  This was the kind of fear that a seasoned one-star general experienced only one or two times in his career. It was the kind of thing he got when facing down a madman.

  In that moment, Widow was that madman.

  The second thing that Widow saw was that the general wasn’t bluffing. He would shoot him.

  For the first time, in a long time, Widow had to ask himself a serious question.

  How far would he go to kill a man he should’ve killed twelve years ago?

  CHAPTER 8

  WIDOW STOOD over the wooly-haired man, ready to stomp down on his head and break his nose, or stand on his throat and break his voice box, whichever he could get away with first. The throat would’ve killed him. Instantly. If Widow wanted.

  The head would not kill him. Not when Widow was still in socks. But it would hurt like hell. He could break the wooly-haired guy’s nose. He could shatter the guy’s cheekbones. Maybe he could dislocate one of his eyes from the socket. Maybe even crush it.

  But Widow had to ask himself: did he want to kill the guy? The simple answer was that he did not know. Not for sure. He was thinking.

  Another question was: was he willing to die to kill him? The answer for this question was not complicated. No, he did not want to die. Not here in a conference room on an Army base. That was a newspaper headline he did not want to ever get written. Not about him.

  “Widow! Hold it!”

  Widow put his foot down, consciously, just now realizing that he had it hiked up, ready to stomp down, violently. His body had already made half the choice for him.

  Andy Swan had stepped way back. Making plenty of room between her and the madman. Some might say she was being overly cautious. But that’s because they did not know about Jack Widow. They had not read parts of his file. She had. To her, it was not cautious enough.

  She pushed her back against the wall. She had dropped the notepad and the pen sometime during the commotion. They lay on the floor.

  Widow took a deep breath, held it. Waited a long second and let it out. His brain relayed signals to the rest of his body, telling him to stand down. Which was repeated at that moment by an Army general. Verbally. Like a command.

  “Stand down, sailor!” Sutherland said.

  Widow stepped back away from the wooly-haired guy, and repeated the deep breathing. Once. Twice. And a third time.

  He said, “You’re not in the Navy, General.”

  “Technically, neither are you.”

  “There’s no reason to call me sailor. I haven’t been a sailor in years.”

  Sutherland retreated from a shooting stance, slowly, and lowered the M9, only down to his hip. He did not holster it.

  The muzzle, the barrel, and the front sights were all targeted on Widow. Staying where they were. He had no intention of changing that.

  Accuracy from the hip was harder. Widow knew that. But not at a range of two yards—less even. Widow knew that too.

  “Are you okay?” Sutherland asked the wooly-haired guy, without glancing at him.

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Goddamn it, Widow! Was that necessary?”

  The wooly-haired guy stood up. Picked carpet fibers out of his mouth and off the stubble on his face. He had the beginnings of a cylinder-shaped black ring around his eye. It formed at the base of his left eye socket. Widow watched it in real time.

  The wooly-haired guy’s cheek was already swelled and mottled and bruised. The blood gathered and painted half his face the color red, like the flag itself.

  “I warned you. I told you what would happen if I ever saw you again.”

  The wooly-haired man stood up. Trying to act like he was not afraid of Widow. An act that everyone saw right through. And he twisted at the waist like he was stretching after a judo match.

  No big deal, guys. His body posture was attempting to say.

  Sutherland ignored the wooly-haired guy, and said, “Andy, come back over. It’s okay.”

  Swan walked back into the room, picked up her notepad and pen. Stopped at the edge of their circle and stared at Widow like he was some kind of mountain man come out of the woods, a look he had seen so many times. He expected it when he met new people.

  Sutherland said, “Commander, you’re right. Neither of us is Navy. But we both wore a uniform. I expect you to act accordingly.”

  Widow stayed quiet.

  “Can I holster my sidearm?”

  No answer.

  “Will you play nice?”

  “Can’t make any promises.”

  “Widow, I need an affirmative acknowledgement of the order given.”

  Widow turned his gaze and stared at him, said, “You’re not in my chain of command. You don’t give orders. No one gives me orders. Not anymore.”

  “Commander?”

  “I’ll be good. Put that gun away.”

  Sutherland paused a quick beat, thinking it over, then he clicked the safety switch. The hammer was decocked. He slid the M9 back into the holster, slowly like a shuttle using rockets to slow its landing.

  Sutherland did not button the safety latch on the holster.

  “It’s apparent that you know Benico. So, let’s skip all that. Have a seat.”

  Widow stared back at Benico Tiller, who was cupping the left side of his face.

  “Andy, can you grab me a pack of ice?”

  Swan nodded and set her stuff down on the table. She took off through an open door to an office breakroom, Widow figured.

  He stepped back, set his boots down on the edge of the table, and dumped himself d
own in the closest empty chair. Kept Tiller and Sutherland in his line of sight.

  “Will you just get to it?” he asked.

  “Widow, you’re here against my better judgement.”

  Tiller said, “I asked for you.”

  “You? What the hell for?”

  “For this,” Sutherland said and walked over to a table below the TV monitor. It was hooked up to a MacBook, some kind of connector cable, plugged right into the back of the TV from the front corner of the laptop. Sutherland clicked and patted the trackpad with his index and middle finger.

  The TV monitor burst to life. First, the screen was black, then it blipped, and then it displayed the MacBook’s screen.

  On the screen, Widow saw a topographical map, satellite view. Google Earth, he figured. It was over a two-mile patch of land that he recognized, immediately, like no time had passed since Tiller had shown it to him once before, twelve years in the past. And he was reminded of what had happened right there. A mission gone terribly wrong. The reason why he hated Tiller. The blame that he placed on himself. All of it. Right there.

  “I can tell by the look on your face, you know where that is?”

  Widow nodded.

  “He knows it,” Tiller said.

  Swan returned with a frozen, packaged steak in one hand and a plain white mug of hot coffee in the other. She handed the frozen meat to Tiller. Desperate to keep the swelling down, he immediately crammed it against his cheek and under his left eye. He was brazenly superficial. Just like every CIA operator that Widow had ever known, minus a few exceptions. The first thing he cared about was how he appeared. These guys were all about taking credit when things were good. And obfuscating when they were bad.

  Swan handed the coffee mug to Widow, who didn’t offer to take it with his hand. He just waited.

  Swan set it down on the table in front of him. She said, “I read in your file that you like coffee. Hope that’s right.”

  “That shouldn’t be in my file.”

  “It is.”

  Widow didn’t know what to say to that. Apparently, his file extended beyond his years in the Navy. Someone’s been keeping tabs on him. Apparently, it covered much, much more. He wondered what exactly was in there. But he didn’t ask.