by R. A. McGee
“Beats me, but I plan on asking him for a thorough accounting before I kill him. That’s why you guys are out here, you know. McHenry knows I’m coming for him and he’s desperate to find anybody to stop me. Hell, the last guy he brought in kidnapped Lucy.”
“Lucy?”
“She was my lead tech officer before I quit.”
“Mousey girl? Big glasses?” Terry said.
“That’s the one.”
“Then come in. If McHenry did everything you say, I’ll kill him for you, but there's a right way to do things, and this is not it,” Terry said, gesturing to the building. His hand went to his ear for a moment and he said, “Copy.”
“One of your guys?”
“Angela. Said she’s woozy but okay.”
“I told you I didn’t kill your team. A couple of them are going to hurt in the morning, but better that than the alternative.”
“I suppose I should thank you for that.”
“You can thank me by opening up your ears and listening to what I’m telling you.”
“Oh, they’re open, and I’m starting to wonder. Angela decided to set up as bait because McHenry told us you’d be looking for a kidnapped woman.”
“He knows I’m trying to find Lucy. Ask yourself, how did he know where I was going to be, huh? Because he knows I’m tracking the real kidnapper, and it led me here.”
“That does make sense.” Terry looked left and right. “I feel like I’m getting played, but I have to do my job and sort the rest of it out later. So come on. Walk to the van with me and we’ll get out of here.”
“I can’t do that. If I go with you, Lucy’s as good as dead. The guy who has her… he’ll—”
“I’m not sure what choice you have,” Terry said. “You ain’t leavin’.”
“You gonna shoot me?”
Terry sighed. He slung his submachine gun around his back and tightened it down. “You didn’t kill my guys, it’s only fair you get the same courtesy. But worn down as you are, a good stiff wind is likely to blow you over.”
Clark pushed himself upright, a bit unsteady on his feet. “Terry, I like you a lot. But if you don’t move, I’m gonna beat you like a drum.”
“Sure thing, Big Boy.” Terry flicked out a jab that Clark narrowly avoided. Clark leaned against the car hood, off-balance. Terry moved in close, launching short, quick punches to Clark’s midsection. The bulletproof vest blunted most of them, but the stinging pain in his ribs reminded him there was definitely a problem there.
Clark pushed Terry back, clearing some space, and stood tall. His neck flushed as an adrenaline dump surged through his system. His fight-or-flight instinct had taken over from all the years of training. The answer was fight.
It was always fight.
He put his hands up in front of him and stepped into Terry.
He threw a quick jab and when Terry ducked to the right, Clark hit him with a big right. Terry blocked most of it, but it pushed him back.
“You know this ain’t gonna end well for you,” Terry said. He kicked Clark’s left leg twice in rapid succession.
The second time, Clark caught his leg and twisted, crashing an elbow into his knee.
“Shit,” Terry said as Clark dropped his leg and backed up. Terry put his leg down gingerly.
“Sorry,” Clark said. “You should have listened.”
The men stood, both slightly hobbled, each waiting for the other to move.
Finally Clark stepped forward, launching an overhand right, big and looping, at Terry’s head. As expected, the man blocked the punch.
Clark grabbed Terry’s shirt sleeve and pulled him closer. In one swift motion, he hooked his left arm in his opponent’s armpit and hip-tossed him to the pavement.
Terry landed on his back with a thud. Clark followed him to the ground, fully mounted on top.
The fight seemed to slow as the men subtly jockeyed for a superior position. Terry had the worst of it; Clark’s big frame and ground-fighting knowledge were tough to overcome. Out of desperation, Terry arched his back and bucked Clark off-balance, then rolled until he was on top of Clark.
With Terry now on top, Clark wrapped his legs around the man’s waist and arched his back to keep Terry away from him. He’d taught the move to plenty of the Blackthorn employees and he figured they all knew it.
Using his elbows, Terry attacked Clark’s thighs, slamming them with sharp little strikes.
“Stop that,” Clark grunted. He unwrapped his legs, placing a foot on Terry’s hip and pushing with all his might. Terry was lifted off the ground and dropped a yard away. Just enough space for Clark to scramble to his feet and be ready.
“You know, I’m not dumb,” Terry said, standing and keeping his distance. “If you weren’t already hurting, I’d never try to take you.”
Clark’s vision tilted and he blinked hard to stop it and set it right. He stepped toward the Buick, if only to hold himself up for a few seconds longer. “Come on.”
Terry charged Clark, who twisted at the last moment, sending the man sprawling onto the hood of the car. Terry rolled and kicked Clark in the face as he reached up to grab him.
Stumbling backward, Clark’s right arm fell uselessly by his side. He willed it back into place, not sure how long he could keep the appendage in the fight.
Terry slid off the hood of the car and limped toward Clark. “That kick would have dropped a mule. You got a hell of a chin, Czerny.”
“Just too stupid to quit.”
The men circled each other, each looking for an opening. Terry flicked a jab at Clark several times, connecting on a few of the strikes. Clark didn’t swing back.
Terry peppered Clark with a few more jabs, and Clark felt his nose crunch underneath one of them. He involuntarily opened his mouth to catch his breath.
Terry flicked one more jab, then dipped his shoulder, a telltale sign of a big overhand right.
It was what Clark had been waiting for. Rather than putting his left arm up to block it, as he’d taught Mateo what seemed like a lifetime ago, Clark lunged forward, underneath the punch. He put his shoulder into Terry’s armpit, wrapping his right arm around the far side of his neck and squeezing the man in a choke.
Terry immediately fought and bucked for all he was worth. He couldn’t stay in this spot for long before he went to sleep.
Clark squeezed with as much power as he had left. His right arm was a bloody mess, and it was slippery on Terry’s neck. Clark squeezed even harder to keep his grip, eventually lifting the struggling Terry off the ground while he choked him to sleep.
Terry stopped wiggling and Clark dropped him like a sack of potatoes. He looked around and saw no one else waiting in the wings. None of Terry’s guys were coming to help their team leader.
Clark reached onto the man’s vest carrier and pulled off a set of flex-cuffs, trussing his friend's arms behind his back. He took Terry’s knife and cut the MP-5 loose from its sling.
He stood, submachine gun in hand, his own rifle slung across his back. He looked around one more time and then lurched off to his SUV. He needed to get somewhere quiet.
Somewhere safe to pass out.
Fifty-Nine
McHenry sat on a park bench in a sparsely visited area of the West Potomac Park. The joggers liked to use the main circuit, pounding themselves into the ground over and over in search of some change in themselves.
The families who used the park stayed towards the playground and, by extension, the restrooms. No sense in getting too far off the beaten path and then having to find a place for little Suzie to potty.
The end of the park, through a grove of trees, offered two things. First was the view. The bench McHenry sat on looked out at the Potomac itself, the sun just beginning to dip low in the horizon. It was still a bright yellow ball in the sky, and hadn’t begun to turn any of the spectacular sunset colors that were a regular occurrence.
Still, McHenry enjoyed the view. Water shimmering in the light. Alone with his thoughts f
or the first time in what seemed like weeks.
And that was the park’s second offering: privacy. McHenry was far removed from prying eyes and ears, and the ubiquitous camera phones that everyone seemed to have in their pockets at all times.
In the old days, there was very little worry in taking a meeting. But now? It paid to go to a private spot. Meeting in a crowded place was a relic of the past.
McHenry often felt like a relic. He told himself that he wasn’t, but the facts were the facts. He was as plugged in as anyone in the District. Congressmen and senators, businessmen and conmen. McHenry had known or worked with most of them, and held markers against many. But on a day when he couldn’t get an old protégé from the Agency to help him, he couldn’t help but wonder if the game was passing him by.
He vowed to take a step back once he’d handled this business with Clark and Miri and Lucy, to reevaluate what he really wanted.
As he checked his watch, a voice spoke up from behind him. “Got space on that bench for me, you old fuck?”
McHenry didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. “Please sit.”
David Butterfield sidled up to him on the bench, sitting closer than he needed to.
“So. You have something for me?”
“Not so fast, Ulysses.” Butterfield made McHenry’s code name sound more like Asshole. “I need to make sure we’re on the same page here.”
“What page do you want us to be on, David?”
“I don’t want us to be on anything, you old bastard. I demand. You’re the one who wants what I have, don’t you forget it.”
“As if I could,” McHenry said, snuggling the collar of his trench coat together against the wind coming from the water.
“I’m not going to forget what you did,” Butterfield said. “You set me up. You made me out to be a traitor, but it was you the whole time.”
“Indeed it was. By no means am I trying to excuse myself, so when I say this, don’t take it the wrong way.”
In a rare turn of events, Butterfield was silent.
“When you first came to work for me, I told you my philosophy, right? I will do whatever it takes to get the job done, by any means. Do you remember?”
“Of course. You’re always spouting off about that. It’s like you have a copy of The Prince up your ass or something.”
“You’re familiar?”
“Sure, I had a Philosophy 101 in college too.”
“Then you shouldn't be surprised that I had to make a move to save my position at Blackthorn and ensure my freedom. I couldn’t be caught giving Miriam up to the Russians, so I needed a fall guy. You fit the bill quite well. To be honest, you did it to yourself.”
“The fuck does that even mean? I didn’t set anybody up.”
“No, you didn’t, but it’s your behavior. You’re boorish, David. An asshole. Racist. No one wants to like you, so when I invent a scenario in which you are the villain, it’s palatable to most of your peers.”
“The hell with them. I couldn't care less.”
“I’m sure that’s true.”
“Besides, none of that matters now. Because I have this,” Butterfield said, and patted his top pocket. “Proof that it was you. Proof that you did it. Just like you taught me, right? Cover my bases? Think strategically? So now the only question is, what do I do with it?”
“May I ask where you got it?”
“Your golden boy, Clark. Asshole broke into my place and choked me out. When I came to, he told me this great story. Everything you’d done. He asked me to get this to my uncle. I guess everyone’s heard how bad he wants to shut Blackthorn down.”
“Then why not take it to the senator?”
“Because he’ll shut Blackthorn down, and I’m still out. You think I’m getting on with the Agency or something like that? Fat damn chance. My best chance to get back in the game is right here, right now. So, you ready to hear my plan?”
McHenry nodded.
“I’ll destroy the thumb drive and everything on it. In turn, you reinstate me to my former position as operations manager. Within ninety days, you resign your post. Then you leave me running the show.”
McHenry continued nodding. He’d expected something similar from the fool on the bench next to him.
“Technically, Blackthorn is a private organization, so I can’t just get my uncle to put me in charge. That’s why I need you to tee things up for me. The so-what for you is, you don’t go to jail for the rest of your old-ass life. You get to be free and ride off into the sunset.”
“So that’s it? You take over Blackthorn and I’m out? How do you expect me to clear your name without incriminating myself? The evidence on the thumb drive points right to me.”
“I don’t care how you do it. It would be nice if you found some way to pin things on that prick, Clark, but I’m easy. Do whatever you do, but do it in ninety days. Then go away.”
“Can I see the thumb drive?”
Butterfield pulled it out of the top pocket of his thick flannel jacket, then dropped it back in.
“You’d have to give me any additional copies you have. I can’t agree to this and be blackmailed whenever you want.”
“Copies? What do I need copies for? I’m not gonna lose this one.”
“Good. Listen, I have to level with you, David. You getting a hold of that thumb drive has sort of changed things for me.”
“How’s that?”
“I’d been worried about being found out. To that end, I had the hacker who planted all the evidence killed. Now the only things that link me to what I did are that thumb drive and Lucy Gordon, since she dug everything up in the first place.”
“Well, I’ll give you the thumb drive, but I don’t know what you’re going to do about your Gordon situation. That’s on you.”
“There are pieces in play. The person with her right now doesn’t seem very stable. I think she could be dead by the morning.”
“Who’s with her? What the hell are you talking about?” Butterfield said.
“Never mind. Mostly thinking out loud. I think you’ve solved my problem for me.”
“Glad I could be of help. So, we got a deal?” Butterfield said.
“Yes.”
Butterfield stuck his hand out and McHenry shook it, gripping it tightly.
“Damn, Old Man, you still got a good grip.”
With his other hand, McHenry slipped a small, razor-sharp penknife from his pocket, and slid it deep into the idiot’s ear.
Butterfield’s eyes went wide at the realization of what was happening and he tried to pull away from McHenry, but the old man squeezed his hand tighter and pulled him close. Then, McHenry rotated the handle of the knife, like twisting the throttle of a motorcycle.
“If you thought I could be bent to your whims, you ignorant prick, then you never learned anything from me.”
Butterfield spasmed several times, then his eyes slowly closed and he leaned back against the bench. The man called Ulysses pulled the slim knife from his victim's ear canal and wiped it across his flannel coat.
McHenry stood and looked around, fortunately finding that he was still alone. He slipped the knife back into his pocket and fished a gloved hand through Butterfield's top pocket, retrieving the thumb drive.
He palmed it and stuffed it deep into his own pocket. With one more glance around at the empty park, he slumped Butterfield over on the bench, his bloody side up, and pulled his flannel coat over his head. Dressed as sloppily as he was, anyone who might stumble on the body would think he was one of the legions of homeless men who dotted the streets of the District.
McHenry moved away from the bench, careful of his stiff hip and the terrain that led him back to the main path. As he went, he pulled out a slim flip phone. He brought up the most recent call and thumbed the green connect button.
“Keever, I know you aren’t answering calls, but I’ll bet you still check messages. If so, I want you to know that you need to get this right. There can be no margin
for error. Make sure you eliminate the girl. I’d prefer, however, that you make it fast.
“Make sure you get your old friend, also. Do not miss, Keever. Whatever you do, do not miss. If you do, that's the end for both of us.”
Sixty
Clark pulled up in front of the building, not sure if he’d been awake or asleep. He stepped out, his body aching. Fortunately, he’d had a clean long-sleeve shirt in his bag, and had been able to hide most of what was going on underneath it.
Blood tended to make most people uncomfortable.
The night air was cool in the parking lot, and he walked a familiar sidewalk to the entryway of the building, where he signed in. The receptionist smiled.
“Still have a couple hours of visiting time. Go on back.”
Clark gingerly pushed the metal open-bar of the set of double doors, smelling a faint tinge of bleach in the air. He walked through a large common area with big, soft chairs and thin but clean industrial carpeting.
He kept going into a dining room with tiled floor and white walls. A dozen people ate, some by themselves, others with help from people in nurse scrub tops. Clark moved into the next day room and looked to the right at a familiar bank of windows.
Sitting in a wheelchair was a man several shades darker than Clark. Still broad-shouldered, but stooped with age, the man had a magnificent handlebar mustache, and a head full of salt-and-pepper hair.
Clark pulled up a chair on his left. The man was silent, staring out into the darkened woodline beyond the window. “How’s it going, old-timer?”
The man was silent, his gaze fixed. “You wouldn’t understand how it’s going. How could you?”
“You’re checking the wood line, right? Make sure no VC sneak into our camp tonight?”
The old man turned toward Clark with clear, brown eyes. “How did you know?”
“I’ve been there.”
“You were in Nam?” the old man asked the obviously much younger Clark.
“Nope, but I was in my own war. Tough times, but I’m glad I made it.”
“I’m glad you made it too. These people…” The old man gestured behind him. “They don’t appreciate what I do. They don’t know about being a sentry, the only thing separating their soft, cushy lives from disaster. But I do it because it needs to be done.”
