November 16, 2016
Hewitt Residence
McLean, VA
I liked the feel of this Mercedes; it was so much better than that beater Chevy we took to surveil the bodega. Fine German engineering. Doyle said that we needed an upgrade now that we were working Hewitt, as the bodega Chevy would raise suspicions in this neighborhood. We were to meet with Hewitt after work at his home in McLean, Virginia, to pick up where we’d left off last night. Posh McLean, home to congressional bigwigs and diplomats, and now the hollowed husk of a hero who would save the country from the villainy of Prisha Baari.
I glided the Mercedes off the 495 Beltway Loop and onto Route 123 heading east. McLean was beautiful. I thought of what might have been, had I played my cards differently. Accepted my Medal of Honor with a smile. Cultivated the network of powerful people that came with that medal. Looked the other way and keep my mouth shut. Maybe I could be living here now, next to some ambassador or big-money lobbyist. Teddy would have loved it here, making little powerful and privileged friends. Friends that would be his own network of gatekeepers when he graduated from the Ivy League. All that could have been, and wasn’t. All because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut and look the other way. I wondered what Teddy would have when his moment came.
“Hey, Frankie,” Doyle said, snapping his fingers. “Frankie.”
“Yeah?”
“How are you doing these days?”
“Huh?”
“How are you feeling?”
Doyle looked me up and down. Oh, the cancer. He didn’t like to say the word. Truth was, my bones ached and the night sweats had started, but I would keep this all to myself. I had extracted a promise from both Doyle and Sarah that we would see our talion project through to completion, and then I would seek treatment. I figured that would be a couple more months max, beginning of the new year. I would postpone my fight against cancer until my forty-first year.
I told Doyle I was fine and spun the question back on him. He responded in kind. Two stoic Boston Yanks. He did say he missed flying his kites in Scituate, and something about the Capitol being a swamp. I agreed. We talked about Sarah, our mutual concern for her well-being. We both despised her philandering husband Victor, but felt she’d be safest under the roof of this cop bastard a little longer. Sarah would leave him come the new year. It was setting up to be a big year for all of us.
I pulled into Hewitt’s neighborhood and onto his street. One magnificent home after another—multi-story brick colonials, on manicured one-acre lots dotted with old oaks and beech. Glistening foreign cars filled the motor courts and circular driveways of sprawling manors tucked behind ten-foot iron gates, fenced in to keep the world out. The world these people shaped every day.
We had to be careful in a neighborhood such as this, even in the Mercedes. Neighbors had sharp eyes and quick 9-1-1 fingers. And unlike my neighborhood, the response time for cops here was lightning fast. Shit, here they’d pull a cat out of a tree faster than I could get a dead body removed from the front of my apartment building. I thought of Angie. She would like McLean as well.
I parked at the curb on the opposite side of the street from Hewitt’s brick manor, about three houses down. We’d got here over an hour early to look for any activity or visitors at the house leading up to our visit. Activity that would indicate that Hewitt had sold us out. Doyle and I didn’t think he would, but caution was required. Doyle would watch the neighborhood, I the house. We would move the Mercedes up and down the street as needed, depending on how hot we got. I figured two strange men sitting in an unknown car on this street (albeit a gleaming Mercedes) had only an hour before the cops showed up, no matter what we did.
I was pulling away from the curb, preparing to loop around the block to find another fixed surveillance spot, when Doyle looked down at his phone. His face darkened.
“What is it?” I asked.
Doyle stayed silent while he read.
“Hewitt says something came up at work and that he won’t be able to meet with us tonight.”
I made a face at Doyle. I could see he was thinking the same thing.
“Something’s not right,” Doyle said. “There were typos in his text. Does Hewitt strike you as someone who sends text messages filled with typos?”
No, he didn’t.
Doyle sent Hewitt a return text, seeking clarification. I parked the Mercedes in a different spot, in front of another neighbor’s house but still within view of Hewitt’s place. We waited for a response. Time slowed. I looked at my watch, Doyle at his phone. This spot was worse than the last. An old guy in crisp trousers and shirt gave us a long look as he walked past. I smiled at him (more suspicious to look away), but knew we were now on the clock. I watched him toddle down the sidewalk past a few homes then turn around to look back at us for another long moment.
“We’re heating up this street,” I said.
Doyle had his head tilted back against the seat’s headrest, thinking. “Maybe Hewitt’s gonna run on us.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“We should stay on the house a little longer. See what happens.”
I nodded. “We don’t have much time left on this street. Fifteen, twenty minutes tops.”
I knew the old man would double back to our spot and call the cops if we were still here. I rolled around the block and carefully selected our last stand. I checked the street in the mirrors. No one was out. And I had a clear view of Hewitt’s house. Good.
Doyle watched the neighborhood, I the house. Street vehicular traffic picked up; people coming home from work, I guessed. Cars slowed as they passed, their drivers turning to look our way. Hard to stave off paranoia when you’re in the fishbowl.
We passed the minutes guessing what might be wrong with Hewitt. Doyle was concerned, said his street smarts were shouting that something bad had happened. Or was about to. I tried to take the other side and played devil’s advocate. I said Hewitt was probably fine, just overwhelmed or, at worst, waffling a bit. We would buck him up and get him back into the fight. My words rang hollow, even to me. Doyle was shaking his head, picking at his fingers and glancing at the side and rearview mirrors. I spoke without taking my eyes off Hewitt’s house.
All we needed was for Hewitt to get us some incontrovertible evidence, enough to blackmail Prisha, and we were home free. She would choose herself over all else and accept my reinstatement as a business cost. I would address any fallout from this after my benefits were restored and sitting in a retirement account, with Nicole and Teddy as primary beneficiaries. We had reached the final talion ladder step. We were so close.
But hope can blind as easily as it illuminates.
A man emerged from the back of Hewitt’s house, walking quickly and with purpose. He headed in our direction, striding down the driveway with the grace of an athlete, past Hewitt’s BMW and through the front iron gate, which he slammed shut but didn’t take the time to latch. He was a large man, young and broad shouldered. The black ball cap pulled down low over his face failed to fully conceal his light blond hair and alabaster skin.
The man checked up and down the street, careful not to lift his chin and reveal his features. He then looked across the street, right at our Mercedes. I pushed hard against the back of my seat to avoid his scrutiny. He stood at the gate for a long beat, raising his head just enough for me to catch a glimpse of what was hiding below that cap. I knew in an instant who this man was. A tremor ran through me. I watched him fast-walk to a waiting SUV parked a few houses down.
“It’s the Viking!” I said, low and urgent. “Quinn—the Viking!” I repeated, pointing.
Doyle had been watching our rearview mirror for nosy neighbors and apparently hadn’t seen him.
“What?”
“It’s the fucking Viking! Getting into that SUV!” I said, still pointing.
The Viking was already in the SUV by the time Doyle was on target. We watched him pull away.
“Viking?” Doyle asked. “You mean Karlsson? The security guy?”<
br />
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
I paused. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
We both looked at Hewitt’s house. Silent. No activity.
“Shit!” Doyle exclaimed.
“We gotta go in,” I said.
Doyle nodded, and in an instant, we were both out of the car and rushing across the street. I reached the iron front gate first, Doyle two steps behind. The gate was still rocking from Karlsson’s touch. I opened it and raced up the length of the driveway, keeping my eyes fixed on the front windows and door. Expecting to see muzzle flash. We reached the back of the house and posted up by the rear door, backs flat against the brick wall. A small pane of glass by the knob had been shattered. I tried the knob and the door swung open. I drew the 9mm pistol from my waistband. Doyle did the same, then stacked behind me. I had cleared my share of houses in Afghanistan, looking for high-value targets hiding in urban areas. I knew the risk. Two men could not safely clear a house of this size. Not even close. But we had to get in there and find Hewitt.
We stepped into the kitchen, trying not to crunch the broken glass. The house was quiet. Too quiet, eerie. Doyle was tight at my back. I saw he had his gun up by his ear. I reached behind me with one arm and lowered his weapon to belt height, muzzle depressed. I knew Doyle was well acquainted with guns, but I’d seen plenty of accidental discharges in Afghanistan. Better I take an errant round in the ass than in my head.
We moved through the first floor, creeping around corners and moving as silently as possible. I used hand signals that Doyle could understand. We did only cursory checks, putting partially cleared rooms at our back. A necessity that sent chills down my spine. All we could do was move fast and quiet, and take whatever we found.
I heard muffled noise as we approached the staircase to the second floor. It sounded like moaning and heavy breathing. Not good. I pointed up the stairs and Doyle nodded. We pressed our backs against the wall and raised our weapons up the staircase. We started up. The wooden steps creaked under our feet, no matter how slowly we went. Whoever was up here now knew they had company. I slid my finger from the side frame of my SIG Sauer and placed it on the trigger. A breach of tactics, but I did it anyway. I quickened our pace and we got to the second-floor landing alive. I pressed my back against the wall and took a few deep breaths. I raised a single finger to my lips. Doyle nodded.
I heard it again, louder now. The sound was definitely human. Gasping, labored breathing. Choking. Coming from the last room down the long hallway in front of us. I feared it was Hewitt. He sounded bad. I also figured anyone else who might be with him already knew we were here.
I did a quick peek down the hall, then pulled back behind the wall. Nothing. One more. Same thing. I took a deep breath, hung my head out in the hall and called out.
“Charles? Is that you?”
No response. No gunfire.
“Charles! It’s us. Frank and Quinn. You all right?”
He tried to speak but choked. Silence followed.
I whispered instructions to Quinn, and we began to creep down the open hall, guns raised. No cover or concealment. Naked. Anyone could pop out from behind any of the closed doors we were passing up and shoot us in the back. Dead. Nothing we could do about that now. Tunnel vision. All I saw was the open door at the end of the hall. The hall seemed to lengthen as we walked, the open door growing more distant, like something you would see in a carnival house of mirrors. Our footfalls creaked over the hardwood floor. The moaning and choking intensified.
We walked back-to-back down the hallway, pressed against each other. What went unsaid was that we had always had each other’s backs, Doyle and I, and that we would both live or die together in this hallway. This gave me strength. Kept me moving towards that open door.
I posted up outside the door and did a quick peek inside. My stomach dropped. Hewitt was on the floor in a pool of blood at the foot of large four-poster bed. Lying on his back, his head turned away from me. The room looked empty.
“Charles!” I shouted.
I felt Doyle spin around and look over my shoulder. He cursed, and I told him to stay at the door and watch the hallway. I stuck my SIG into my waistband and rushed to Hewitt’s side. I knelt over him. His face was beaten raw and swollen. Blood oozed from his nostrils and mouth. It trickled from both ears and down the sides of his neck. I turned his head towards me, elevating his shoulders off the floor. I shook him until his eyes fluttered open halfway. It took Hewitt a long moment to register who I was. He grabbed hold of my arm, tight. Tried to speak, but choked. He spat up a gurgle of blood, which dribbled down his chin. I raised him higher. He was surprisingly heavy.
“I’m sorry, Frank,” Hewitt rasped. “I’m an old man.” He paused for a coughing fit. “Not as strong as I used to be.”
“Who did this to you? The Viking—Karlsson?”
Hewitt nodded. Spat something out of his mouth. “He knows everything now…”
“Does he know about us?”
Hewitt’s eyes closed.
I shook him awake. “Charles! Does Karlsson know about us?”
Hewitt nodded. His eyes welled up. A tear rolled down his face, mingled with the blood.
“I’m so sorry, Frank,” he whispered.
Quinn called into the room. “Frank! How is he?”
Hewitt turned his head towards the door. “That you, Quinn?” He flicked his eyes towards Doyle.
Doyle alternated frantic looks into the room and down the hall. He chose the room and ran to Hewitt’s side. Hewitt grabbed hold of Doyle’s hand. Doyle leaned over him, close.
“They got me, Quinn. I didn’t want to talk…” He coughed more blood. Tears flowed freely from his tired old eyes now.
“I know you didn’t, Charles. I know you did your best.”
Hewitt blinked back his tears, struggling to raise himself off the floor. He groaned.
“She’ll come for you now, both of you,” Hewitt said, his voice suddenly strong. “Run,” he mumbled, then caught his breath. “RUN!” He collapsed back into my arms.
“Don’t talk,” Doyle said. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
Hewitt shook his head. His eyes fluttered wide open. “Tell my girls I thought of them in the end.” A smile crossed his face, then faded. “Now go.” He released Doyle’s hand. “It may already be too late…”
Hewitt closed his eyes. His head rolled to one side and he went slack in my arms. I knew he was dead. Doyle knew it too. He reached over and gently closed Hewitt’s eyes with a swipe of his hand. I placed him back down on the floor.
We both knelt in silence around Hewitt’s body. I felt the rage rising within me. The guilt would come later, and would stay with me until my own death. Only one way this thing was going to end now. I was all in. Pot committed. This was no longer just about me putting things right for my family. It was about Quinn and Sarah. Robinson and Chang Li. And now Hewitt. Charles Albert Hewitt.
Doyle finally looked up, cleared his throat and said we had to get out of there, that the cops would be here soon. We both stood, paid our last respects to Hewitt, then hastened out of the room. I failed to notice the faint footprints I left in Hewitt’s blood on the hardwood floor, or the microscopic hair and fibers I deposited all over this crime scene as I knelt over the now deceased Charles Hewitt. Or even the partial fingerprint I had left on the front iron gate.
It was not much, but would be more than enough for Prisha Baari to work with.
Chapter Thirty-Six
November 22, 2016
Prisha’s CIA Office
Langley, VA
Prisha was fast-talking the job candidate sitting across the desk from her in her office. Hewitt had been dead for six days and she needed a new deputy for ODYSSEUS. The woman candidate was a senior staffer to the chair of the House Intelligence Committee. Before that, she had done a stint at the White House. She was a slick thirty-something careerist and reminded Prisha of herself at her age. Prim and polished, with sharp fang
s. The candidate smiled when she was supposed to, displayed the proper balance between deference and cockiness. Prisha thought she would make a fine dance partner.
Prisha charmed the woman right out of her Jimmy Choos. Telling her what she wanted to hear, giving her just enough of what she needed. Told her that as deputy, she would be her second-in-command on Project ODYSSEUS, the most important clandestine project in the entire U.S. government. Told her the work was groundbreaking, how it was America’s best defense against both internal and external threats around the globe. Prisha spoke of career advancement and five-figure cash bonuses. Hinted that the candidate herself could one day succeed her at the helm.
Prisha thought the woman bought most of it, at least enough of it to seriously consider the job. If she demurred, Prisha would take another run at her. Try out some other fables. She wasn’t concerned. She figured she’d have Hewitt’s replacement in place right after Thanksgiving break.
Prisha had left Hewitt’s fate to Karlsson, and she was not displeased with his results. They now knew with certainty they had a Frank Luce problem, but Prisha was not overly concerned about him. Who would believe the rantings of a homeless man? A thoroughly discredited one at that. Besides, Luce would meet Hewitt’s fate soon enough, and no one would miss him or bat an eye. This guy Quinn Doyle, however, posed a different problem, given his mobster past. But it was too early to tell. Luce appeared to be the head of the snake. She would cut this head off quickly and sweep up the pieces later.
Karlsson had covered his tracks well. The cops saw Hewitt as the victim of a home burglary gone bad. Hewitt had surprised the thieves by returning home early, and they’d shot him dead. The beating was harder to explain, but Prisha and Karlsson had seen to it that the cops chose not to dwell on that anomaly. Hewitt was a prominent government official, a quasi-famous man in USIC circles. The media loved the story, a story made for click bait. Rich white guy killed in mansion in rich neighborhood. If it could happen to him, here, it could happen to any of us. Fear. Fear was the commodity, and the media sold it hard. The Hewitt story lasted a news cycle or two, then faded. The media moved off the carcass, found other things for people to be scared of.
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