It is more like the floating conference room of a slightly disorganized corporation, cluttered with paper and files and plastic foam cups and discarded sugar packets and a bunch of bleary-eyed guys in shirtsleeves and ties with coffee breath and damp underarms.
And like every other office in the world, Riggins dryly noted, you couldn’t even smoke in it.
But at least most companies let you step outside for a nicotine fix. Step outside here, and you’d plunge forty thousand feet to your death, the bright orange tip of your cigarette marking your descent.
Not that he had time for a cigarette. The secretary of defense was in the process of crawling up his ass.
“What was that bullshit in there about you ruling out our best chance of capturing this sick little bastard?”
The country rarely saw this side of Norman Wycoff, America’s most passionate defender—and, at times, avenger. Oh, the media occasionally reported stories about his temper, but that was chalked up to being part of his charm. Secretary Wycoff wasn’t vindictive; he was passionate about keeping this nation safe from terrorists. He wasn’t prone to fits; he liked to make his points.
But they should see Wycoff now. Blue veins bulging out of his ordinarily placid-looking head, and the beginnings of dark circles under his sharp brown eyes. The secretary was famous for looking like the personification of steely confidence no matter the forum, be it an audience of one or one million. Now it looked like whatever taut string holding it all together in his brain had gone snap, and he was coming undone.
So here Riggins was, sitting in the cluttered heart of the American empire, being yelled at by the man charged with keeping it safe.
“Respectfully,” Riggins said, “I thought we covered this in the meeting, Mr. Secretary.”
“Every person I talked to in Special Circs thinks he’s the man for the job,” Wycoff said. “Why is that? And why are you being so fucking stubborn?”
Riggins sighed. “Dark is not an option.”
“You two were close, as I understand it,” Wycoff said. “You could bring him back, if you wanted.”
Riggins wanted to scream, How? By laying my hands on his head and exorcising him of his demons? By raising his family from the dead?
This was exactly the reason he hadn’t wanted Dark mentioned in the teleconference. Once Dark was mentioned, then Dark would have to be explained, and once these guys heard about Dark, then of course, hell yeah, they’d want him on the case. Who wouldn’t? Dark was the man for the job. But it just wasn’t going to happen.
Riggins tried to explain it again in a way that would penetrate the secretary of defense’s thick fucking skull. Yes, Riggins thought, it was time to break out the visuals.
“Two years ago, Rome,” Riggins said. “Dark was the lead agent on the Sqweegel case. We think he came closer to catching him than anyone had in twenty years.”
“You think,” Dohman said.
“We have no evidence, but it soon became clear that Dark rattled Sqweegel. Because Sqweegel retaliated.”
“I know, I know,” Wycoff said, annoyed. “Against his foster family. It was a tragic loss. But you’d think that would have this Dark itching for payback.”
“You don’t understand,” Riggins said. “Dark had a pretty traumatic childhood. Luckily, he doesn’t remember much of it.” Riggins remembered what he’d been able to dig up all those years ago about Dark’s early childhood, when the man had first started working for him. Stuff Dark himself didn’t even know, and never would if Riggins had anything to say about it.
“What he does remember is being raised by a warm and loving foster family in California. Typical story, really—parents think they can’t conceive, they adopt, and then boom, they get pregnant, a boy. Boom, pregnant again, a girl. But they loved Dark unconditionally, and Dark felt the same way. They were everything to him. They were the storybook ending every foster kid dreams about. And then…”
Riggins reached into his bag, pulled out a manila folder. “It’s better if you see for yourself.”
He handed Wycoff the file.
“Take a good look at what happened to Dark’s foster family. His mother, Laura, fifty-four years old. Victor, his father, fifty-nine years old. Rose, Victor’s mother, eighty-three. Younger brother, Evan, thirty-two. Younger sister, Callie, twenty-nine. And her daughter, Emma, eight months.
“Take a look and understand why Dark will never come anywhere near this case.”
Wycoff opened the file, flipped through the crime-scene photographs. Riggins watched him carefully. Was any of this getting to him? The children, shot in the face? The baby, discovered in the oven? Riggins was more than a little surprised when Wycoff wiped beneath his eye, sniffled, then handed the file back to Riggins. Good God. Was the secretary of defense crying a little?
“I understand the situation,” Wycoff said, voice wavering a little. “But there’s been a new development. Bob?”
Dohman leaned forward. He still wore the faint trace of a Serves you right smile.
“Last night the White House communications office received an encrypted video recording. NSA decrypted it for us and immediately sent it back, marked ‘eyes only.’”
Dohman looked at his boss, who nodded. Dohman placed his thumb on the lock interface of the briefcase. Wycoff’s thumb joined his a second later. Something beeped. The lock opened. Inside, fitted in a custom-made cradle, was a single memory stick.
Dohman lifted the stick out of the cradle and handed it to Riggins.
“This clip is designed to play just once. Once it’s loaded onto a laptop computer, it will play, then permanently erase. It cannot be copied.”
Sure, this message will self-destruct, blah blah, Riggins thought. But it still didn’t explain why he was dragged onto Air Force Two for some one-on-one.
“Well…you got a laptop handy?”
Dohman frowned. “It’s not for you. It’s for Dark.”
chapter 10
Riggins wanted to scream.
He didn’t care if he was standing in front of the secretary of defense. One of the most frustrating things about this job, Riggins thought, was dealing with assholes with the unique ability to hear only what they wanted to hear, no matter how loud you shouted. Instead, he took a deep breath.
“I told you before: Dark’s out. There is no Dark. As far as we’re concerned, Dark is dead.”
Wycoff said, “Well, it looks like you’re going to have to perform a resurrection, then.”
Riggins lowered his head. Wycoff still thought this was a matter of choice, but Riggins knew better. After Sqweegel had single-handedly slaughtered Dark’s foster family—and set fire to their home in some kind of sick final insult—Dark handed in his papers and went rogue. Dropped off the radar completely. At first, Riggins thought Dark had gone somewhere to disappear, possibly even killed himself.
But then the sightings began—Dark in Tel Aviv. Dark in Glasgow. Dark in Beijing. Dark all over the world, tracking down Sqweegel leads on his own. Always near the scene of a horrific murder that could well have been the work of Sqweegel—could have been, but none were confirmed as his handiwork. Yet. Only Dark knew how close he’d gotten the second time, and as far as Riggins knew, he wasn’t telling. If Riggins had a nickel for every time during that year he had told a foreign liaison that no, Dark is not with Special Circs; it must be someone else…well, maybe he would have pulled the plug earlier.
Dark definitely wasn’t with Special Circs. Not in name or in mind. Riggins heard he was ignoring police procedure altogether, bribing and torturing his way through various international underworlds in an attempt to find anyone who might have assisted or supplied Sqweegel at any point. Riggins thought he must have come up empty.
Because a year ago, the sightings had stopped. Dark had given up.
So why would he jump in again now?
There was just no way.
“Mr. Secretary—” Riggins started. He wanted to continue with go fuck yourself. But again, he held b
ack, took a short breath. You don’t work thirty-five years to flame out in two seconds.
Dohman stepped in. “Tom, there’s something you don’t know. What I’m about to verbalize is classified.”
Of course it was. That’s why he wasn’t even allowed to bring Constance along for this trip—and Riggins trusted her with everything.
“Okay,” Riggins said, the stress of the night finally settling in on his nerves. He’d had enough for one day. Where was the guy who filled the drinks around here?
“The video on that stick is of a gruesome murder,” Dohman said. “Every second, in high fidelity.”
“Sqweegel’s done that before,” Riggins said. “He likes to—”
“No, Tom. You don’t understand. This is not like anything that monster has done before.”
Riggins loved how it was all Tom now. Like they were old college buddies.
Wycoff, meanwhile, was staring out the window, a fist curled up against his mouth. The night sky looked like it had been painted with the darkest hue of blue available. Only a few pinpoints of starlight made it through.
Dohman looked over at his boss, as if for moral support, but Wycoff didn’t respond. Bobby D’oh!—as they liked to call him around Special Circs—was on his own with this one.
“The victim was someone of interest to the president.”
“What? Who?” Riggins asked, but already his mind was reeling. Good Christ—did that crazy bastard breach White House security and rape the First Lady? Or maybe one of the president’s family members back at home in Illinois?
“Can you give me a little more?”
“That I can’t do.”
Riggins sighed. He really, really could use a gallon of whiskey, some ice. But instead he was stuck here on Air Force Two, playing guessing games with a guy who should know better.
“I can’t tell you,” Riggins said, “how much this hampers any potential investigation. If you’re worried about leaks, let me assure you—”
“We’re not worried about leaks,” Dohman said.
“Then what?”
“Just bring the stick to Dark. We believe he’ll take the case once he sees this.”
“With all respect, gentlemen, Mr. Secretary,” Riggins said, “fucking forget Dark! I’ve said it a dozen ways, and I’ll keep saying it until it finally sticks.”
“Not an option,” Dohman said. “We need Dar—”
Wycoff snapped his head around and cut his underling off midsentence.
“Enough!” he barked. “Yes, I hear you, Riggins. But hear me now: You have no choice. I’m through fucking around. This is an election year. This thing gets out, even if only a piece of it hits the fucking blogs or newspapers, the president kisses reelection good-bye. It also sends one hell of a message around the country. You want to know what message that is, Riggins? It says, in big neon letters, ‘You are not fucking safe.’ See, we’ve come up with this creepy little scale of evil, and guess what: This monster’s worse than Bundy, Gacy, Heidnik, Gein, the Son of Sam, and everybody else you use to scare the shit out of your kids when they want to stay out late. This little prick can kill anyone he wants, anytime—even those close to the leader of your country.”
Riggins was now dying to know what had happened. Who the hell could it be that nobody would even let him see the recording?
He thought about the oldie but goodie Sqweegel had sent yesterday—the “Senator’s Cunt Mistress.” They knew the identity of that victim: a woman rumored to have been the longtime paramour of former Senate minority whip Thom Jensen, her destroyed body found more than ten years ago. The new tape would send the original investigators—if any had survived this long—back to the case files, revisiting a macabre tale they knew only too well.
But that didn’t help them with this new murder. One that struck the Oval Office at point-blank range. If both victims had connections in Washington, was Sqweegel sending Special Circs a hint?
“Anyway,” Wycoff said, “that’s all for the record. Off the record, Dark takes this mission or we’ll have you executed.”
The cabin went quiet.
chapter 11
Make no mistake: The secretary of defense can wipe out any domestic operative, American civilian, or resident living within U.S. borders. It’s not strictly constitutional, but then again, what’s constitutional is often a matter of interpretation. The events of 9/11 made sure of that. Made it easier to hide missions and divisions and operations that have been going on for years.
There is a separate division at the secretary’s personal command for such removal of unwanted parties. The rumored name: Dark Arts.
Dark Arts has never appeared on the books or in official files. There are no checks cut. Instead, there are billions in cash to rid the nation of such headaches, tucked away deep in the walls of the Pentagon. The Dark Arts unit was couched in the spirit of “national security.” A license to kill anyone, anytime, for any reason when it is in the best interests of the Republic.
Riggins had heard of them over the years. He’d come across crime scenes originally thought to be the work of a new gifted serial killer, but then official word would be handed down: “No further investigation required. Thank you for your cooperation.”
And that would be it.
Now Secretary of Defense Norman Wycoff was essentially confirming the existence of such a unit.
Riggins sat in dumbfounded silence. It took a lot to flummox a man like Riggins, who had truly seen it all in his years with Special Circs. This, though…this was unreal. As if on cue, a broad-shouldered woman in a tuxedo shirt and bow tie stepped forward to refresh Riggins’s whiskey and ice.
“I think we understand each other?” Wycoff asked.
“Yeah,” Riggins said, still partially numb.
“Good.”
Dohman handcuffed the briefcase to Riggins’s wrist, then pressed Riggins’s thumb to the keypad. Something beeped. There. His problem now.
It was up to Riggins to make Dark commit…or else.
“Good luck,” said Dohman.
I always thought my career would end in death, Riggins thought. But I had no idea it’d be from people on my own team. Never saw this one coming. It was a hell of a choice he’d have to make: Bring Dark, the closest thing he had to a friend or a son, back into the fold against every instinct he had—or choose his own death instead.
Riggins took a swig of his whiskey. Ice cubes rested against his lip with every sip. He already needed a refill.
Endless refills.
The secretary of defense split for his private quarters on the plane—borrowed from the vice president, presumably—with several aides trailing after him like lemmings.
Two serious-looking men stayed behind. They eyed Riggins, who eyed them back. Riggins had noted them before and assumed they were Secret Service.
“Hello, fellas,” Riggins said.
One, with a buzz cut so short, his white hair seemed to glisten, stared at Riggins. He didn’t offer his hand. Riggins didn’t offer his, either.
“My name is Agent Nellis,” the man with the buzz cut said. “I’ll be your liaison with the Department of Defense.”
“Nellis, huh,” said Riggins, waiting a beat. Then, “Who’s your boyfriend?”
The other man introduced himself as McGuire. No first name offered, no exact rank. McGuire simply said he’d be assisting Nellis for the duration of their assignment. Riggins glanced down and noticed that McGuire was missing two fingers—the ring and pinkie—on his right hand. He wondered what that assignment might be, then realized he already knew the answer.
Within a few hours the plane was preparing to land in Los Angeles. Nellis and McGuire remained silent, despite Riggins’s sporadic attempts to strike up an innocuous conversation. Even football talk failed—and these two slabs of meat looked like former college linebackers from two different generations. So Riggins gave up and settled in for a long and steady drinking session. He even sweet-talked the rest of the bottle out of the woman
in the tuxedo shirt and convinced her to leave the ice bucket as well.
Finally, a few minutes before final approach, Nellis leaned forward and briefed Riggins.
“Dark has forty-eight hours to commit,” Nellis explained. “If he fails to commit by the deadline, you’re out. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” Riggins said, “I understand.”
And he did. Nellis and McGuire weren’t Secret Service or regular DOD staffers. No, Riggins thought, I do believe I’ve just met two agents from Dark Arts.
He eased back into his airline chair, which was wide and comfortable. A gift from the taxpayers. Then he rested his head back and shut his eyes. Sqweegel had his movies? So did Riggins. In fact, he had a front-row seat to his own life, flashing inside of his eyelids.
He wondered whether he had a chance of convincing Dark. Or whether he even wanted to.
These Dark Arts guys, with their obviously fake names—air force bases, Riggins noted dryly—would be immune to reasoning. You don’t bargain with stone professionals. You don’t try to appeal to their inner children. They were there to do their jobs, not better their souls. Ordinarily, Riggins would have really liked these guys. Guys who don’t fuck around, guys who shoot straight.
He wondered just how straight they shot.
Riggins looked down at the waterproof digital watch on his wrist. It had been a gift from his daughter, what—a half dozen years ago? She said she didn’t know what he liked, so she picked this up in a mall. Riggins said it was perfect. She told him whatever. Riggins thumbed the watch until it reached its countdown function, set the time for forty-eight hours, then hit START.
Funny thing, watching your life slip away by seconds.
48:00…
47:59…
47:58…
Riggins wanted to hole up in a cheap hotel room with a cheap woman and drink cheap scotch until he was sweating the stuff from every single pore. He wanted to forget what he did for a living, because what he did for a living was about to get him killed. But instead Riggins allowed his eyelids to fall, no longer trying to fight the need to sleep, knowing it was futile.
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