most professional sharpshooters possessed.
He’d instructed the medical examiner to let him know if anything showed up in the wound that was out of the ordinary. They almost certainly wouldn’t be able to reconstruct the burned bits of photo now plastered into the senator’s chest cavity by a high-velocity rifle round. But one never knew. Knox understood from experience that it was the little shit that brought most criminals down.
He straightened up and stopped thinking about gunshots and dead men as the sounds of the footfalls trickled down the narrow hall toward him. There were two men, both in suits, and both carried equally grim expressions. One of them held what looked like a large safety deposit box. He set it down on the table with a loud clunk. It gave added gravitas to a situation that didn’t really need any more, at least to Knox’s thinking.
The older man was very tall and broad with a crown of thick white hair. Yet he was also weathered and beaten down by innumerable crises spread over decades. There were no safe harbors here; the hitch in his step, every wrinkle on his face and the bow in his shoulders bespoke that essential truth. His name was Macklin Hayes, a former army three-star who’d matriculated to the intelligence side a long time ago, though his ties to military intelligence, Knox understood, were still strong. He had never heard anyone refer to the gentleman as Mack. It was just not something you’d ever consider doing.
Hayes nodded at him. “Knox. Thanks for coming in.”
“Didn’t really have a choice, did I, General?”
“Do any of us?”
Knox waited, choosing to say nothing in reply to this.
“You understand the situation?” Hayes said.
“As much as possible considering the short time I’ve been on this sucker.”
Hayes tapped the lid of the box. “The rest is in here. Read it, absorb it, memorize it. When it’s all over, you are to forget every last bit of it. Understood?”
Knox slowly nodded. That part I always understand.
“Any preliminary thoughts?” the younger man asked.
Knox didn’t know this gent and wondered why he was even here. Perhaps just to carry Hayes’ goody box. Yet he’d asked a question and probably expected an answer.
“Two executions performed by one sniper who knew his business, probably ex-military with some kind of grudge and he wanted Gray and Simpson to know it. He left the grave marker and flag for Gray and a photo of a woman taped to a newspaper for Simpson. He shot the senator first and then came to Maryland to nail Gray, probably before word of Simpson’s murder got out and Gray was forewarned.”
“You’re sure not two shooters?” queried the younger man. “And you’re certain of the sequence?”
“I can’t be sure of anything right now. You asked for my prelim, there it is.”
“Escape? He couldn’t have left by any road. He would’ve been seen.”
Knox hesitated. “Off the cliff.”
Hayes spoke up. “Apparently you’re not the only person to suggest that.”
“Who was the first?”
“Read the file.”
A burn developed in Knox’s gut but he held his tongue on that command. “Did Gray say anything in the days leading up to his death?”
“He was involved in something about six months before he was killed. What exactly is so classified even I haven’t been allowed a full briefing. Gray, as you well know, was a man who kept things very close to the vest. And he was in the private sector at the time, so that also limits what we know. It’s a bit muddled to say the least.”
Knox nodded. Gray and secrecy just naturally went together. “Is that connected to the usual suspects who have now been taken off the table? I have to say that revelation was a little out there.”
The younger man answered. “But not all of us agree with that decision.”
Knox looked from young man to old. “So what exactly does that mean? Are they off-limits or not?”
Hayes cast off a smile that was impossible to read. The man could have made a fortune with chips and cards in Vegas, thought Knox.
“Hard to say. As my colleague here mentioned, there’s a split decision about that in the corridors that matter.”
“So where does that leave me?”
“Treading cautiously, Knox, treading very damn cautiously.” He tapped the box. “I was able to collect some things that I’ve placed in here. Including a few off-the-record items.”
“You mean things that technically I’m not supposed to be privy to?” Knox was now missing his book and cozy town house even more.
“We’ll just assume that’s the case.”
“I’m not looking to take a slug in the back of my head over this.”
“I would add that neither am I.”
“That doesn’t give me a lot of comfort, sir, because if you’re watching your back, I’m probably already dead.”
“I want you to read everything, leave here, go home and think. Then call me.”
“With questions or answers?”
“I would hope both.”
“The guy’s probably long gone by now.” Real pros exit as well as they kill.
Hayes lightly tapped the tabletop with his long, bony fingers. To Knox they looked like miniature Medusas in the dim light. “Perhaps.”
“Look, I can spin my wheels and report back zip. You tell me the parameters, General. I’ve played this game too long to get the rookie runaround.”
Hayes rose, as did his companion; the master and his puppet. “Read, think, call. Good night, Knox. And best of luck.”
Knox glared after the pair until they disappeared down the hall, the aircraft carrier and its faithful destroyer chugging through the storm-tossed seas of American intelligence. He lifted the lid of the box, pulled out a fistful of documents and started to read.
Best of luck said the cobra before it struck.
These were precisely the sorts of days where Knox wished he’d followed his old man into the plumbing business.
CHAPTER 6
STONE’S BRIEF SLEEP was suddenly disturbed by what sounded very much like a fight. He blinked awake and looked around. The woman next to him was comforting her crying baby. Stone stared over several rows of seats at the cause of the ruckus.
It looked to be three against one, all in their twenties, where the testosterone surge frequently overrode all safety valves. Two held one while the third pounded away. Some of the passengers were making halfhearted calls for the men to stop, but no one had climbed from their seats to really do anything. Stone looked around for the conductor but didn’t see anyone in uniform.
The kid being held was the one Stone had seen before, the former high school quarterback who held an angry chit against the world. His handsome face was taking another right cross to his already swollen left cheek. Blood ran down his nose as he struggled to free himself. He kicked and spit and lunged, but couldn’t break loose as the third fellow laughed and landed a kick to the gut that doubled over Mr. Quarterback.
Okay, that’s enough.
Stone sprang up from his seat, and when the hitter swung back to let fly with another blow, he grabbed the fist and pulled hard, almost knocking the fellow off his feet. He jerked around and stared at Stone, his anger dissolving to amusement.
The kid was at least five inches shorter than the six-two Stone, but nearly forty years younger and fifty pounds heavier.
“You want some of it, old man?” the kid mocked, raising his fists. “You want some of this?” He danced and juked around, his belly jiggling, his meaty arms flapping and the bling on them jingling. It was all Stone could do to keep from laughing.
“Just let him go and we call it square.”
“He’s a card cheater!” yelled one of the other punks as he gripped the quarterback’s hair and ripped his head upward. “He cheated at poker.”
“And I think you taught him a real tough lesson. So why don’t you let him go.”
“Who the hell are you giving orders?” the beefy kid with
the cocked fists said.
“Let’s just call it a day, fellows. You made your point. He’s banged up pretty bad.”
“Yeah, but you’re not.”
“Just trying to make the peace.” Stone looked at the other passengers, many of whom were elderly. “You’ve scared everybody pretty bad.”
“You think we give a shit?” He pointed at Stone. “Now, what you’re gonna do, old man, is say you’re sorry for bothering us and you’re gonna turn yourself around and go sit down if you know what’s good for you. Otherwise I’m gonna have to kick your ass too. Hell, I just might do it anyway ’cause I feel like it. How ’bout that?”
It had been a long day and Stone was already pissed that he couldn’t even get ten minutes of sleep, so he said, “Just you? Or with your two buddies there helping?”
The kid smiled. “Oh, just me, granddad. But I tell you what, just so’s my kicking your ass won’t be over too fast, I’ll only use one hand.” He gave a little jab and Stone darted his head out of the way.
“Oh, looky here, pops can dance. You a good dancer, pops?” The kid suddenly kicked at Stone, who seized the leg and held on to it with an iron grip.
Beefy’s face now turned scarlet as he hopped around on one leg. “Let me go, or I’m gonna hurt you bad. Let me go!”
“You get one more chance,” Stone said.
The kid swung a fist out. And missed.
Stone’s elbow to the side of his head didn’t. Neither did the blow to the nose, with the kid’s bone breaking on impact. The punk crumpled to the floor moaning and twitching.
The other two dropped the quarterback and started forward. One fell like he’d been axe-cleaved when Stone’s foot smashed his crotch and then collided with his head. The other never saw the fist slam into his gut and then shoot up and crush his chin. He ended up on the floor of the train car next to his friends, holding his stomach and his face.
“What the hell’s going on here?”
Stone turned to see the rotund conductor racing down the aisle, walkie-talkie and ticket puncher in hand and his Amtrak cap bouncing on his head.
Before Stone could say anything one of the punks he’d laid out yelled, “He attacked us.”
The other passengers immediately started talking, telling their version of what had happened, but it all came out pretty garbled.
The harried train conductor looked over the mess of bodies on the floor, then turned to Stone and said, “You’re the only one left standing. So did you hit these men?”
“After they attacked me. They said they caught that one cheating at cards,” Stone said, pointing to the “glory days” kid who sat on the floor holding his bloody nose. “They wouldn’t stop pounding the crap out of him and then they came after me.” He pointed to the crowded floor. “You can see it didn’t turn out the way they probably intended.”
“Okay, let me see some ID,” the conductor said.
“What about their IDs? I’m just the Good Samaritan. Ask any of these folks.”
“That may well be. But I’m starting with you and I’ll work my way through all of them. How’s that for a plan?”
Stone didn’t want to give the man his ID, because he knew if he did it would end up in an official record somewhere that the folks coming for him might be able to find and use. Besides it was a fake ID and wouldn’t pass muster under a database check.
“Why don’t you start and end with them while I just take my seat? I wasn’t really part of any of this.”
“Either give me some ID or I radio ahead for the cops who’ll be waiting at the next stop.” He pointed to the young men. “You too.”
The quarterback gave a groan and spit up some blood.
“He needs some medical attention,” Stone said quickly. He knelt next to the young man and put a hand on his shoulder, only to have it thrown off.
“I don’t need any damn help from the likes of you!”
Stone rose and said to the conductor, “I think we need to call in a doctor.”
“If he wants medical attention, we’ll get it, but I’m still waiting for your ID, sir,” the Amtrak man said stubbornly.
He just isn’t going to give up, is he?
“I’m getting off this damn train at the next stop,” said the quarterback. He rose on shaky legs.
“That’s fine. You can all get off as far as I’m concerned,” the conductor said.
“What is the next stop?” said Stone.
The man told him. “And you either show me some ID or I radio for the police.”
Stone thought for a moment. “How about I get off the train at the next stop too?”
“Works for me,” said the conductor, staring at him intently. Stone did not like the look on the man’s face; it was full of suspicion.
The conductor pointed at the young men lying on the floor. “Now all you get back in your damn seats and stay there or else you’re going to jail, and I mean what I say.”
The beefy kid Stone had pounded first wailed, “What if I want to press charges against this son of a bitch?” He pointed at Stone.
The conductor said, “Fine, and then that feller”—he pointed at the quarterback—“can press charges against you. And this man,” he added, indicating Stone, “can press charges against you too and your buddies, because what I’m hearing from all the other passengers is that you came after him first. So what’s it gonna be, mister bloody nose?”
Beefy’s cheeks quivered. “Screw it, just forget it.”
“Smartest thing to come out of your mouth yet. And next time you want to brawl just make sure it’s not on my train. You don’t want to mess with Amtrak, sonny boy.” The conductor turned and stalked off.
Stone retook his seat, inwardly fuming. Why the hell had he gotten involved? Now he’d lost his ride.
The woman next to him leaned over and said, “You sure were brave to do what you did. Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
“Boy Scouts,” Stone said absently.
Her eyes widened. “Boy Scouts? You’re kidding?”
“The Scouts were a lot tougher in my day, ma’am.”
But then he grinned weakly and she laughed. “That was a good one,” she said.
Stone stopped smiling.
Not really. Because now I’m screwed.
CHAPTER 7
CALEB SHAW and Reuben Rhodes had been depressed before Alex Ford came to Caleb’s high-rise condo and dropped the latest news on them. Now their attitudes sank right through the floor.
Caleb poured himself a sherry and started popping greasy potato chips in his mouth as fast as possible, a longtime nervous habit of his, and he was the possessor of many. “How much more tragedy are we expected to endure?” he exclaimed.
Reuben said, “So he killed Simpson and Gray?”
“He didn’t come right out and say it in the letter, but that looks to be the case,” Alex said.
“Pricks deserved it,” Reuben said staunchly.
“It was still murder, Reuben,” Alex pointed out.
“And look what they did to him. Anybody get one day in jail for that? Hell no.”
Alex looked ready to debate the point as he had with Annabelle but then seemed to think better of it.
“Where do you believe he is?” asked Caleb.
“Running,” answered Alex. “And don’t be surprised if the FBI shows up on your doorstep asking questions.”
“If they do, I don’t know nothing,” Reuben stated firmly.
“Be careful on that score,” Alex warned. “A perjury charge can get you a few years in a federal lockup.”
“I’m not saying anything that’ll get these bastards caught up with Oliver, Alex. And I’d expect you to do the same.”
“My situation is a little different,” Alex said defensively.
“Are you Oliver’s friend? Didn’t he save your life?”
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