by R. A. McGee
McHenry was the only member of the boy’s family who attended.
The residents had graduated from their treatment and were technically free to leave, but given the time of day, McHenry and his grandson had reached a joint decision to stay and leave in the morning. Despite having graduated from the program, rules were still in place while he was on campus, and he was required to stay in his own room.
No matter. McHenry was glad everything had worked out. With so much in his life going off the rails, at least he had managed to do right by the boy.
He stood on the porch, watching the sunset over the White Mountains of New Hampshire. All the walking had left his hip in a state of anger, and he resolved to handle that as quickly as possible.
Closing the door behind him, McHenry rifled through his bag for his pain medication, and pulled out the bottle of Scotch he’d brought. While he felt marginally bad about drinking and using prescription drugs at a rehab facility, he brushed the notion aside. He didn’t have a problem. He sat the Scotch on his coffee table.
McHenry pulled his laptop from another bag, setting it next to the bottle on the coffee table. Opening it to an email he already had written and saved as a draft, he went back into the kitchen.
He brought two glasses over to the old coffee table in front of the couch and set them down, chasing a double dose of medication with a neat sip of the booze. He exhaled, shoulders slumped, feeling his age more than ever. He pulled out his pistol—just a small, J-frame revolver—and held it in his hands. He looked at it for what felt like an eternity before pushing the cylinder opening latch and dropping the rounds of thirty-eight onto the floor. Then he tossed the revolver onto the floor on the other side of the room.
He poured himself a much larger drink, and filled the extra cup most of the way up as well. He scooted back against the old couch and sipped his drink. He paused before taking his next sip. “You can come out now.”
Seventy-Four
Clark stepped out of the bedroom, where he’d watched his mentor ever since he’d made it back from the graduation. He carried his Glock in one hand, but didn’t level it at the old man as he moved around the coffee table and took a seat in the uncomfortable chair.
McHenry gestured to the glass of Scotch, but Clark shook his head.
“Come on, I wouldn’t poison it.”
Clark shrugged. “I don’t know you anymore, so I’d rather not chance it.”
McHenry smiled wanly and gulped Clark’s portion down, as well as his own.
“I watched the graduation. Proud of your boy,” Clark said. “I know how much he went through to get here.”
“Thanks, Clark. You don’t know how much that means to me.”
Clark nodded. He didn’t recognize the small old man on the couch in front of him. The man who’d recruited him from Delta Force, the man who’d taught him tradecraft and introduced him to the game, was gone. He would have taken a bullet for Ulysses. He no longer felt affection for McHenry.
“I’m sure you have a bunch of questions.”
Clark shook his head. “Just one. Why?”
McHenry exhaled long and slow. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Samantha. She’d never done anything to anyone. Why?”
“I figure I don’t have much time left. Can I just level with you? No bullshit?”
Clark nodded.
“Money. That’s all. Just money.”
Clark didn’t move a muscle.
“I made one bad decision and the snowball effect has been tremendous. It’s really something they should study in a classroom somewhere. The downfall of a man due to one bad choice.”
Clark stared at him.
“Remember when we were after Petrovsky in Costa Rica? He had the EMP device?”
Clark nodded.
McHenry crossed his legs. “I knew he’d spent a fortune financing the building of the device. I figured he’d pay almost anything to have it back. It occurred to me that if we stopped him from launching Costa Rica back to the Stone Age, we’d have the bomb. I could sell it back to him, and put a bunch of money in my pocket.” He waved his hand around. “All this doesn’t come cheap. You know it’s almost two thousand dollars a day here? And it’s Kevin’s third go-round.
“I’d already depleted my retirement when I divorced that bitch ex of mine. I’d already used every available account I could pilfer from Blackthorn and all the rainy-day money I’d stashed away during my career. I was broke. Why not sell Petrovsky his bomb back? Worst-case scenario, he pays me, we give it back, and then you guys just go and take it from him again.”
Clark fished through his wallet. He held up the photo booth picture in front of McHenry’s face. “Samantha. Why?”
“Don’t you see? You’d quit. You were happy, and it didn’t look like you were coming back. I needed something to drag you back.”
“And her dying was just the thing.”
McHenry shrugged.
“But you almost killed me too. I was standing right there.”
“If you remember, I called you nonstop for about twelve hours. Calls and texts. I wanted to tell you about Miriam being kidnapped.”
Clark raised his pistol at McHenry. “Because you knew I would drop everything to go find her.”
“And be nowhere around when the bomb went off. But you just couldn’t answer the damn phone.”
“She would have died alone, while I was trying to fix your mess in Costa Rica.”
“It would have solidified your decision to stay,” McHenry said. “And given you an enemy to rail against. And I would have helped you every step of the way.”
“I can’t believe you would do all that—kill Sam, serve Miri up to the Russians—just to drag me back.”
“It shouldn’t surprise you. What do I always say? The end justifies the means.”
Clark shook his head. “Not always. Not this time.”
“A leopard doesn’t change its spots, son. I’ve been deep in this game for decades. I had it all planned out,” McHenry said. “It was easy enough to find one of those black-hat hacker kids to plant all the evidence on Butterfield. His uncle, the senator, had been paying a little too close attention to us. With a disgraced traitor for a nephew, he was going to be in my pocket forever.”
“And that was all good until Lucy found out about the planted evidence.”
“Yeah, well, the girl was too damn good. With you finding the burner phone I sent to the cartel and her finding out about the evidence, I knew I was cornered.”
“So you asked the CIA for Keever?”
McHenry sighed. “I didn’t know he was what he was. He was supposed to follow Lucy to Pennsylvania, then eliminate the black-hat kid. Cover my tracks. He wasn’t supposed to hurt her or Miri. That wasn’t what I wanted. I figured once they were both safe, I could spin the situation and sort everything out. If no one was dead, then there was a chance.”
“Well, you own it,” Clark said. “Your choices brought us here.”
“Yeah. I know that. Hell, look what you did to Hakagawa and his guys. I should have never involved them.”
“Why did you?”
“Once Butterfield gave me the information, I thought I could get myself off the hook. It became natural to consider eliminating you, as well as Lucy. No reason to let you come after me and kill me for Samantha—or Miri or Lucy.
“It was simple to set Hakagawa’s team on you. You were disavowed, so it was easy to get them to agree to the mission. I figured they would kill you. I’d given up on bringing you back in by that point.”
Clark frowned.
“Well, obviously that wasn’t a smart move. I guess I underestimated you. Which is saying something, because I’ve always thought you were the best.” McHenry pointed at the laptop. “May I?”
Clark nodded as the old man sat up and turned the laptop around. “I’ve been working on this. I knew eventually you would find me—hell, I’ve been waiting for it. I only hoped we would have a chance
to speak before I took the big dirt nap. “
“You’re running out of talk time. Out with it.”
“This email is to all the intelligence agencies in the States, and a good chunk of the reputable ones around the world. It takes you off the disavow list. You could work somewhere if you want. Do whatever you want to do.”
“But…?”
“You can’t kill me. Think about it. If I send it and you kill me, I won’t be able to corroborate why you’re off the disavow list now. Hell, once I turn up dead, everyone will think you made me send it under duress. Without me, the email is worthless. The kid who planted the evidence is gone. Butterfield is dead, and I have the thumb drive. And Lucy… well, there isn’t anyone left who can prove that I did any of this.”
“Miri knows,” Clark said.
“Sure, but what can she prove? No, without me to admit everything, you’re still out in the cold. Everyone will still think you’re a traitor. Everyone will think you’re a dangerous dog that ran off the leash and needs to be put down. You won’t have a moment’s peace unless you find somewhere to hide—and even then, some hard-ass who looks just like you will come for you. Everyone wants that feather in their cap—killing a traitor.”
Clark nodded as the man spoke. He was right, of course. Without McHenry to own up to the deception and the hell that he’d caused, there was no way Clark could be vindicated.
“So what do you say? Let me send this email. Then we call the FBI and sit here and drink until they show up and arrest me. I’ll tell them everything. By morning, you’ll be all clear. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s like I always say—the ends justify the means. You’ll get your life back.
“I’ve been a worthless old bastard to all of you. You deserved better. Let me take accountability. Let me make things right.”
Clark stood and holstered his pistol. “The problem is, Samantha was my life, McHenry. The biggest part of my life. Lucy was special too, and that’s on you as well. It doesn’t matter if Keever was the one holding the knife, you pointed him at us. This is all you, savvy?”
McHenry nodded solemnly. “If I could take it back, I would. I see that now. It’s not because I want to live. The hell with that. I’m just being honest. For the first time in a long time, I realize I went too far.”
Clark paced back and forth, looking at the shrunken old man.
“Mind if I ask you something?”
Clark nodded, keeping his eyes on McHenry.
“You never told me. Why the tattoos? Every time I asked, you gave me a different story.”
“Why does it matter?” Clark said.
McHenry shrugged.
Clark pushed his sleeve up, exposing his left forearm. “I heard a story once, about how killing someone meant they would be your slave in the afterlife. Imagine that? Being rewarded for the shit we do.”
“Do you believe that?”
“In an afterlife? Sure. I’m not religious, but I believe in God. So I started thinking, what if it’s true? I looked into some old myths and folklore, and it isn’t that uncommon of a thought. Slaves were buried alive with deceased Chinese emperors, just so they could work for them in heaven. The Vikings believed killing someone in battle could make them your slave in Valhalla. It started to bother me. What if everyone I’ve killed is shackled up behind me when I cross over?
“I don’t want that. I want to be free of all this when I finally bite it. So I got the tattoos. A key for most of the people I kill. That way, when I wake up dead one day, I can unchain them and send them on their way.”
“Most of the people?”
Clark pulled his sleeve down. “There are a few who didn’t deserve a tattoo. They can stay chained up behind me forever. I can live with that.”
Clark pulled a syringe out of his pocket. It was the extra Miri had given him at the hospital, the one that had almost killed her.
McHenry nodded. He was too dignified to beg. “If you’ve made your decision, then let’s be on with it.”
Clark stepped toward the man, plunged the needle into McHenry’s neck, and depressed the plunger, giving the old man the entire dose of poison.
McHenry barely flinched. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Clark said, and capped the syringe, dropping it into his pocket.
Jack McHenry looked up at Clark. “How about me? Do I get a tattoo?”
Clark was halfway to the rear door of the bungalow. He paused and looked back at his mentor. His face was flushed already, and Clark could see the sweat on his forehead. “I’ve already picked out a space for your key.”
With that, he pushed out the door and disappeared into the frigid night air.
Seventy-Five
Miriam Banks hid her eyes behind overly large sunglasses. The sun was bright enough to warrant them, and no one would have begrudged her the obscuring of her still-healing face, but she wore them for an entirely different reason.
The group around the gravesite was varied and eclectic. There were some people like Miri, professional colleagues who were dressed in their darkest suits and stoic.
Miri smiled across the casket at Terry Hakagawa, standing with a group of Blackthorn employees. His face was a giant bruise, the deep greens and purples playing out across his eyes and nose. He nodded grimly back.
There was also an entirely different contingent—younger, with tattoos and piercings and different-colored hair.
Lucy’s parents were there, inconsolable over the death of their daughter. Miri couldn’t imagine having to bury a child. Of all the things she’d done, that seemed almost inconceivable.
The leaves had all fallen from the trees, and the bitter wind blew her hair around her face. Miri stood close enough to hear the preacher give an impassioned eulogy for the young woman who had been so widely loved. She turned her head in the middle of the service, feeling eyes on her. Her senses rarely led her astray, but she didn’t see anyone.
Once it was over, Miri headed back to her car. She didn’t want to mingle at a time like this, preferring instead to think of anything else. As she approached the door, she saw a note tucked underneath the windshield wiper.
She looked around before plucking it from the wiper and retreating to the warmth of her car.
Miri sat for several long moments, letting the engine warm and directing the blower toward her hands. She tore open the sealed envelope and shook the note out.
M-
Sorry I didn’t come closer, I didn’t want to cause problems. I’m not the most popular person right now. I heard what I could. I just wanted you to know, I tried to stop this. I didn’t mean for you or her to get hurt. For any of you to get hurt. I’m going away for a while. If you need me, you know how to get a hold of me. I’ll miss you.
- C
Miri hopped out of her car and looked around, but she knew he was gone. He had stayed away because to most of the world, he was still a traitor. The members of Blackthorn who were at the funeral would have treated him as such. Not to mention the popular theory floating around was that Clark had killed Jack McHenry out of spite. That Clark, enraged from being disavowed, had hunted McHenry down and murdered him for it.
Miri knew better. She believed Clark had killed McHenry, but she also knew the reasons why. And if she had her way, she’d find a way to clear Czerny Clark’s name.
By any means necessary.
Epilogue
Ivan Petrovsky had gone by many names in his life. He’d forgotten most of them by now, instead just remembering the one he’d come to prominence in Russia under.
Most people called him Vanya.
Originally a political dissident, he had been rescued from a gulag in the middle of the Perm region and given a suicide mission for the KGB. Something only he could possibly have handled. His handlers hadn’t much cared if he survived; he was just disposable chattel. He’d not only survived, but thrived. Eventually, the KGB had hired him full time.
It was during this time that he’
d been in deep cover in the communist state, chasing—and being chased—by the man he knew as Ulysses all over Europe during the Cold War. After the collapse of the USSR, he’d deftly navigated his way through the wreckage, amassing both money and power.
He now owned oil rights in several large fields in Siberia and in the oceans off the coast of Russia. He also owned a telecommunications firm, power stations, and several highly acclaimed restaurants. Not to mention that one of the largest private military organizations in the world was at his beck and call.
It comprised mostly former Spetsnaz, but accepted highly trained men from any country’s government. Good, hard men, loyal only to a dollar. And Vanya had plenty of them. The problem was, his men had been defeated. Made to look like fools, all because of one man.
This man, Clark, had killed many of his men in both Venezuela and Costa Rica. Petrovsky needed to speak with him regarding these transgressions. There needed to be a reckoning.
Sitting behind his enormous wooden desk, Vanya slapped the ass of a partially clothed girl who was sprawled out on the rug next to him, asleep. She woke with a start.
“Get out,” he said.
The girl collected her things and stumbled toward the door, past Pavel, Petrovsky’s assistant.
Where Vanya was clothed in comfortable, flowing pants and padding around barefoot, Pavel wore an impeccable suit. The heels of his shoes clicked as he walked across the hardwood floor to stoke the fire in the enormous hearth across the room.
“What did you find?”
Pavel clicked over to Vanya’s desk, his heels silenced as he crossed onto the plush rug. “Plenty.” He handed a manila folder to his boss.
“You queried everyone?” Vanya said.
“Yes. Our people at the DSS and Interpol. Our insider at MI-5 as well as a contact at the American State Department. Everything there is to know, I believe we have. This didn’t come cheap.”
