Total Mayhem

by John Gilstrap

  “Dear Lord,” Gail groaned as she saw the approaching motorcade. “Why do we have this effect on people?”

  “Given their mode transportation,” Jonathan said, “word must have leaked out about how bad my golf game is.” He unclipped his seatbelt and walked to the back of the cabin, where he opened what on any other version of this aircraft would have been a coat closet and withdrew two M27s and an H&K 417.

  As he walked back to the forward end of the cabin, he handed Gail one of the M27s. “Hey, Big Guy,” he shouted just loudly enough to be heard on the flight deck. “I presume you’ve seen our welcoming committee?”

  “Yup.”

  “When you lower the doors, I want you to lower the forward port side door and the aft starboard side door simultaneously.” He pivoted to Gail. “I want you to take a position back there. Don’t know if this is going to go hot, but if it does, I want the greatest coverage we can get.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Gail said.

  As she moved into position, Jonathan slung his M27 and handed Boxers his H&K 417 shoulder cannon.

  “Where do you want me?” Boxers asked.

  “Stay near the flight deck,” Jonathan said. “If things really go to shit, getting out of here will be a priority.”

  “Roger that.”

  Jonathan took a breath and settled his shoulders. He glanced back to make sure Gunslinger was in place, and he said, “Lower the doors, and let’s see what happens.”

  As the stairs lowered, the first thing Jonathan noticed was the blast of cold air. He stood in the doorway with his rifle at low-ready, safety off, fire selector on automatic. All six of the riflemen stood in an arc around the base of the stairs in similar postures.

  “Kind of a harsh welcoming committee,” Jonathan said from the top of the stairs.

  None of them moved.

  “Let me tell you what I’m thinking,” Jonathan went on. “This is what people in my business like to call a target-rich opportunity. You look ready to shoot, and that puts you about half a second away from a firefight that not all of you will win.” He gave the words a few seconds to sink in. “If I see a twitch or a change in stance, I’m going to kill you all.”

  He took another few seconds.

  “So, let’s do this,” Jonathan said. “I’m not sure how we got to Defcon One here, but let’s notch it back a bit. When I count to three, we all engage our safeties and take our hands off our rifles.”

  “You go first,” said a guy that Jonathan recognized as the vestibule security guard he’d spoken to before.

  “No, we go together,” Jonathan said. “Don’t screw this up, boys. I will not hesitate, and I will not miss. Reach down deep and ask yourselves if you can say the same.”

  He let another ten seconds pass.

  “Okay, here we go,” Jonathan said. “One . . . two . . . three.” He made a show of twisting his fire selector switch to SAFE and lifted his hand a couple of inches off his rifle’s pistol grip. “Together now.” With his fingers splayed, he lifted his hand away from his weapon.

  The others hesitated, but then did the same, more or less in unison.

  “Excellent,” Jonathan said. “I hate having a gunfight looming over my head.” He descended the stairs until he was standing on the tarmac. “Who’s in charge?”

  The vestibule guard stepped forward. “I am. At least while we’re here.”

  Jonathan walked down the stairs to the tarmac “Have you got a name?”

  “Call me Mike.”

  “Right.” Jonathan rolled his eyes. Apparently, everyone at Juliet had common Mid-American names. “Call me Neil.”

  “Right.”

  Jonathan shifted his posture to one foot and slid his rifle down until the muzzle was pointing at the ground. He felt confident that if someone tried to draw down, Boxers would take him out from somewhere inside the plane.

  “So, why the posse?” Jonathan asked.

  Mike reached into his pants pocket, then stepped forward. Jonathan braced for conflict, but Mike presented him with a business card. Jonathan accepted it and turned it in his hands so he could read it. The embossed blue logo made it clear at a glance that it belonged to an FBI agent. More specifically, Arlon McCrimmon, Special Assistant to the Director. “You know him?” Mike asked.

  Jonathan shook his head. “Never heard of him.” That was a statement of fact, but in the broader sense, he thought he was familiar with most of the names in Irene’s immediate cloister, and he’d never heard the name. “Why are you showing me this?”

  Mike’s eyes narrowed to a squint. “You really expect me to believe that you’ve never heard of Agent McCrimmon? Special assistant sounds like a pretty important job.”

  “Yes, it does,” Jonathan agreed. “But I don’t have a clue who he is.”

  “Well, that’s a shame,” Mike said. “Because he’s the reason why I have orders not to let you leave your aircraft.”

  Jonathan folded the card into his fist and planted his fists on his hips. “How about you stop talking in riddles and tell me what this is all about.”

  “First tell me why you’re here.”

  “This isn’t a secret,” Jonathan said. “I understand that my people and your people have already worked this out. We’re here to interview the guest we brought to you a few days ago.”

  “Logan Masterson,” Mike said. “Just to be clear.”

  “I’m not entirely certain that we’re allowed to speak his name, but yes, Logan Masterson.”

  “You’re too late,” Mike said.

  “And why would that be?”

  “Because that special assistant to Director Rivers killed him about forty minutes ago.”

  Jonathan said nothing. There had to be more coming.

  “Officially,” Mike clarified, “Logan Masterson killed himself. He just happened to do it at a time when he was alone with Agent McCrimmon. He hanged himself with a rope that wasn’t in his possession when his room was swept a half hour before McCrimmon arrived. So, what’s the real game here, Neil?”

  Again, Jonathan said nothing. He was trying to make sense out of what he’d just heard.

  “It’s your turn to talk,” Mike said.

  “I don’t know what to say.” Jonathan was trying hard to control the anger that was swelling inside his gut. Just what the hell kind of game was Irene playing here? “What did this McCrimmon guy tell you he was here to do?”

  “To talk to the prisoner.”

  Jonathan didn’t know what to say or ask, so he was grasping at anything to keep the conversation alive. “What did he look like? McCrimmon?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I’m looking at you and can’t say what you look like. He was medium everything. White guy, dark hair, dark suit.”

  “Did he say anything when he left?”

  “He didn’t really say anything when he got here,” Mike said. “He flashed a badge at the security officer, and she let him in. He left about a half hour later, and by the time we found out that Masterson was dead, McCrimmon was in the wind.”

  “How sure are you that he was really an FBI agent.”

  “About as sure as I am that you are.”

  In this business, the only safe call was to assume that everyone was lying all the time. “Can I see the body?” Jonathan asked.

  “No.” That answer came without equivocation. “I literally am under orders to shoot you if you don’t get back in your plane and fly away. You Feebs are persona non grata until either we figure out what you’re doing or until we get our shit together. Either way, have a nice day.”

  “I can’t just take your word that Masterson is dead,” Jonathan said. “I need to see the body.”

  “Then you’re going to die a disappointed man,” Mike said. “It’s nothing personal, but you and your Bureau have made too many messes here over the years. Arguing is just going to make you leave later. Am I clear here?”

  Jonathan tried to think of an alternative option, and nothing was there. “Clear as crystal,�
�� he said.

  “Thanks for understanding,” Mike said.

  “I’m happy that I look like I understand,” Jonathan said.

  “Just what the hell is going on?” Mike asked. The swagger shield had thinned. He seemed genuinely concerned.

  “I don’t know,” Jonathan said. “But I’ll tell you what I do know. This country is under attack, and in today’s political climate, with a couple more successes, God only knows what might happen.”

  “I tell people it’s time to start laying in food and ammo,” Mike said with a smile.

  “Not a bad idea,” Jonathan said as he turned and headed up the stairs.

  When they were buttoned up and airborne, Jonathan and Gail gathered near the door of the flight deck so they could all talk.

  “I can’t think of a more thorough waste of time than that trip,” Boxers said. “Glad I’m not the one paying for the gas.”

  Jonathan handed the palmed business card to Gail. “Before we land, I want you to reach out to one of your folks and have them research that name.”

  She read the card. “Arlon McCrimmon? Sounds like one of the names that Wolverine gave to us. Kind of out there. You don’t think . . .”

  “That she double-crossed us?” Jonathan said. “I refuse to. But I think it’s somebody in her immediate sphere.”

  “You gonna tell her?” Boxers asked.

  “Not yet, I’m not. That’s not a thing to speculate about with her.”

  “Any theories?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Jonathan said. “The list of people who could possibly have overheard us and who could point me out in a lineup is very, very short.”

  Gail brought a hand to her chest as a puzzle piece feel in place for her. “Her bodyguards?”

  “That’s who I come up with.”

  Boxers laughed. “Jesus, Dig. I’m gonna guess they’ve undergone some serious screening.”

  “So has every other government dickhead who’s released classified information over the years.” Jonathan turned pensive as he took the next step in his head. “I have to be careful here because I’ve never liked her security detail and I’ve never made a secret about it.”

  Gail feigned a gasp. “Oh, pray, say it’s not true.”

  “Yeah, I know that’s hard to believe.”

  “You’ve always been shy that way,” Boxers added.

  “Anywaaaay . . . A few days ago, when I met with Irene at Burke Lake, I caught the taller of the Tweedle brothers looking at me strangely.”

  “Maybe he thought you were hot,” Boxers said.

  “I am hot, so that’s a real possibility,” Jonathan said without dropping a beat. “But it wasn’t that kind of look.”

  “What kind of look was it?” Gail asked.

  Jonathan chuckled ahead of his answer. “You know that look JoeDog gets when she gets caught doing something bad?”

  Both of the others laughed. “Yet they think that you show them less than full respect?” Gail asked.

  Jonathan clapped his hands. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Gail, get on the horn and start the wheels moving on finding out if Arlon McCrimmon is a real person. I’m going to reach out to Venice and get her to find out the names of Wolfie’s security statues and then to dig into them. And Box, try not to fly the plane into a mountain.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Three and a half hours later, it was late as they taxied to their hangar. The ground crew had every right to be cranky after they found out that what was supposed to be an overnighter turned out to be one very long day. Jonathan didn’t know how Big Guy stayed awake and alert as long as he did. As always, he insisted on driving the Batmobile while Jonathan slept through most of the ride back home.

  He was a little tense to find that his living room lights were on, but relieved when he opened to door to find Venice asleep on the couch. He was less pleased to see Derek crashed on one of the loungers, JoeDog at his feet. As the team entered, JoeDog perked up and jumped to her feet, startling Derek, who lunged out of slumber and startled Venice.

  “Oh, you kids,” Boxers teased.

  “You know, you’ve got a whole mansion up the hill, right?” Jonathan said.

  “This couldn’t wait,” Venice said, though her eyes weren’t focused yet. “What time is it?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Jonathan said. “Mind if I sit?”

  “Of course not . . .” The words were out before Venice recognized that her boss was being ironic. Then she recovered. “But you won’t want to do that for long.”

  * * *

  The Maple Inn wasn’t just a dive. It was a twenty-four-hour dive, and the only place it made sense to meet at this hour. When the ever-composed director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation entered, she looked somewhere between pissed and apoplectic. When she directed her security team to stay near the front door, Jonathan was reassured that Dom had delivered the entire message. Her hair was combed but not coiffed, and she wore the kind of jeans and T-shirt combination that one might expect of someone who’d just been evacuated from a house fire.

  In short, she looked like just about everybody else who was drinking beer and eating chili dogs at zero dark early.

  “Dammit, Digger,” she said as she slid into the bench opposite him. “You know, I really do have other things to do.”

  “Sleeping is not a real thing to do,” Jonathan said. “And since you like to make sure I get so little of it, I thought I’d share the wealth.” He slid the business card he’d taken from Juliet and slid it across the table. “This guy a close friend of yours?”

  Irene tromboned her arm to look at the writing. “Arlon McCrimmon,” she said, tasting the name. “Never heard of him. And I’ve never had a special assistant.”

  “Well, he just killed our only witness. Logan Masterson.”

  Wolverine’s jaw dropped.

  “Agent McCrimmon apparently heard of my plan to interview him, then leveraged your office’s contact with Site Juliet to get there first. The security guard told me that I missed him by forty minutes.”

  Irene scowled deeply enough to make her eyebrows touch. “I assure you that I had nothing to do with that.”

  “Never thought you did,” Jonathan assured.

  “Juliet must have a leaker,” Wolverine said.

  “Oh, that it were so,” Jonathan said. “It’s your shop, Wolfie, and I can prove it.”

  “Absolutely not,” she said.

  He could see her defensive shields falling into place. Hell, he could almost hear them. “Give me a chance,” he said. A waitress approached, then retreated from his quick shake of his head. “Remember our talk in the park?”

  “I’m not doddering,” she said.

  He needed to get to the point. “We discussed then that there had to be a leak for that assault force to try to take out the prison. To kill Masterson. Now, earlier today, we determined to visit him in the prison, and assassins got there first. I don’t know how many people you talked to about this, but my list is clean.”

  “That’s why I think it had to come from someone at Site Juliet.”

  “Let me finish,” Jonathan pressed. “It’s no secret that I don’t have a lot of respect in your security team, but they’re the one constant in our meetings.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Digger,” Irene looked like she was ready to stand and walk away.

  Jonathan made a pressing movement with his hands to keep her in place. “I know you don’t want to hear this, Irene. At least hear me out, and then you can reject my theory if you want.”

  “You’ve got three minutes,” she said.

  “It’ll take seven and a half,” Jonathan said with half a smile.

  It took a beat, but she smiled, too. And she relaxed.

  “All right,” Jonathan continued. “Here’s where I broke a law or two.”

  Irene brought her hand to her chest to feign amazement.

  “I had Mother Hen do some research on your security team.” He didn’t mention th
at she had a fair amount of help from the NSA.

  “Digger!”

  “Hey, if we didn’t find anything, you’d never know. When she dug into Porter Brooks, she found some interesting stuff. Did you know he had a mistress in Crystal City?”

  “How can that possibly be relevant?”

  “It’s not,” Jonathan said. “I just thought it was interesting.”

  He got the eye roll he’d been expecting. “He’s also way over his head in debt. And I think that is relevant. From what we can tell, it’s a common denominator to all of these shooters. Now shooters and coconspirators. Two months ago, he managed to pay down a hundred fifty thousand dollars’ worth of his debt over the course of two weeks. I don’t suppose you gave him a big raise during that time?”

  Irene scoffed. “That’s hardly proof that he’s involved in something like this.”

  “I told you it’s a seven-minute presentation,” Jonathan said. “Hang in there. When Mother Hen went through his phone records—”

  “Jesus.”

  “—she found the smoking gun. On the night of the Capital Harbor shooting, he received a call on his home phone from one of the burners used to transmit what we think was the abort order. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that if you execute a warrant on his residence—or maybe his person—you’ll find another burner on our list.”

  Irene stared at Jonathan for the better part of a minute. He could see from her eyes that her mind wasn’t there, that she was trying to process it all. Finally, she said, “You’re sure about this.”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “If he had a burner phone, why wouldn’t the other conspirator call him on that instead of his home phone?”

  “I don’t know,” Jonathan said. “In fact, it’s conjecture on my part that he even has the burner. What I’m positive of is that he took a call from a bad guy on a night that was bad for the bad guys.”

  She thought it through some more. “I can’t use any of this,” she said. “It’s all inadmissible.”