Smoke Rising

by Craig Halloran

  “Yeah.” He yawned and eased back until he lifted the front legs of his chair from the floor, then started gazing around. “I know all of the lists. It’s what I do.”

  “But there’s another list, one that isn’t on the public record. It’s called—”

  Smoke’s brows lifted, and his chair legs hit the floor. He leaned over the table and spoke.

  “The Black Slate.”

  CHAPTER 4

  I’ve got him.

  “Let me see the list,” Smoke said, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. “I knew it existed.”

  “Oh, did you now? You don’t sound so sure.”

  “It was a theory.”

  “Based off what? The Black Slate has very little activity. It’s very low profile.”

  “True, but I know all the lists pretty well. I’ve studied the cases, the files, at least whatever I could get ahold of. But there was always something missing. I don’t look for what they show or say, I look for what they don’t show or say.” He drummed his fingers on the table and stared at the file. “All of those lists I figured were nothing but busywork that hid the real people. Good for the papers. Good for accolades and medals. But they never bring in the top-dog criminals.” He stretched his fingers toward the file. “May I?”

  Sidney slid the file away. She wanted to give it to him, he seemed so eager, child-like even.

  “Not without clearance, and I don’t see that happening if you aren’t on board with this. Don’t fret it. The list isn’t in here, just the first assignment. Are you interested or not?”

  Smoke pulled his fingers back. “Tell me more. I’m curious. Why does the FBI want to use me as a resource?”

  “All right, I can answer that. Let’s just say that our resources are stretched thin. Even though the Black Slate, as you call it, is important, other matters have higher priority: border security, domestic terrorism, cyber-attacks, white collar crime. There are only so many agents, and they can only keep tabs on so many things.”

  “Sure, sure, and I’m supposed to believe the NSA doesn’t keep tabs on any of these things? Don’t you share information with each other?”

  “Like I said, the FBI has priorities, but the Black Slate is still a threat, it just isn’t as high up on DC’s agenda.”

  “Ah,” Smoke said, “Washington DC, home of the greatest truths and the greatest lies.”

  “You have a skewed outlook on things,” she said. “Where does all this come from?”

  “I read a lot of books.”

  “What kind of books?”

  “The kind that aren’t on the bestseller lists.”

  “I see.” She nodded. “Is there anything you care to recommend?”

  “Nope.” Smoke’s chair groaned as he shifted. “So this character on the wanted list, tell me about him. Has the FBI tried to catch him?”

  “Yes, for years and without success. I’ve studied the file. We’ve gotten close, only to see him slip from our grasp time and time again. And these are veteran agents. They speak as if he’s a ghost or something.”

  Smoke tilted his head. “Maybe he is?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe he’s like Bruce Lee and they just can’t handle him?” He made some quick chops with his hands. “Wah-tah!”

  “I’m certain that’s not the case, but several agents were wounded in hand-to-hand combat.”

  Smoke’s eyes widened. “Maybe it’s the ghost of Bruce Lee?”

  “You are a strange man.”

  “So, do you have a picture? A name?”

  “Are you in?”

  Smoke beckoned with his fingers.

  Sidney pulled a picture from the file and shoved it over. It was a surveillance shot of a small dark-haired man in a blue suit, stepping out of an SUV. “His name is Vaughn, Adam Vaughn. They call him AV.”

  Smoke’s brows buckled as he studied the picture.

  “Is this the only picture you have?”

  “The only one on me, and it’s the best one we have.”

  “This guy’s about five foot five. Hmmm, and he almost has the unibrow thing going. Spanish descent. Sharp features. Hard-eyed.” He rubbed his chin. “Where’s the last place they cornered him?”

  “DC.”

  “And what is he suspected of?”

  “Trafficking.”

  “Trafficking what?”

  “Everything.”

  “So you have testimonials?”

  “Some living and some dead.”

  Smoke shoved the picture back across the table.

  “All right.”

  “All right. Does that mean you’re in?”

  “No, all right as in I’m thinking about it.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Sidney jogged the monuments route in DC. She checked her watch and heart rate. She was thirty minutes into the run, and her thighs and legs were starting to burn.

  Thirty more to go.

  It was Saturday, mid-morning, and the sun almost warmed the fall air. She hated running when it was too cold. She didn’t like getting up early either, not on Saturday. There were other tasks at home she liked to do. But today was different. This wasn’t her usual route or scene. She had another meeting. Her former boss wanted to meet. Outside the office. Privately. First time for everything.

  Wiping the sleeve of her grey hoodie across her brow and picking up the pace, she passed two joggers, older, wearing 80s Adidas leisure. She smiled as she ran by. They probably moved much faster thirty years ago. She jogged by several people, strollers, tourists. It wasn’t the best time to run, but she liked the extra work that came with running through the slow masses. She picked up on things.

  A man sitting on a bench wearing a leisure suit and winding his watch. A group of older women walking at a brisk pace and laughing. One had purple leggings on. Another straightened her red wig from time to time.

  She weaved her way around the reflecting pool three more times. Her lungs labored, and her feet burned. She checked her time, pushed on, passed the World War II Memorial and sprinted across the street toward the Washington monument, where she slowed to a walk. Hands on her hips, she strolled toward the monument until she saw a man sitting on a bench, waving.

  “Sid! Sid!”

  Soaked in sweat, she trotted over. He stood up and opened his arms wide. He was as tall as her, broad and heavy, balding with a handsome smile on his face. She stopped short of him.

  “I’m soaked in sweat.”

  “It’s all right,” he said in a comforting voice, “I have my raincoat on. Come here.”

  She sighed and made her way into his arms, which braced her in a bear hug, taking more wind from her. “Easy now, Ted.” She patted his back.

  “Sorry.” He released her. He was still smiling. “I’ve missed my favorite trooper. It’s been awhile.” He clasped her hands and held them tight. “You look great.”

  “Sure I do,” she said, brushing the damp hair from her eyes. “You look great yourself.”

  He patted his stomach. “Maybe twenty, thirty, forty pounds ago.” He lumbered back to his seat and sat down with a groan. He patted the bench. “The desk and meetings are killing me.”

  “Are you sure it isn’t the burgers and French fries?” She took a seat.

  “It’s those buffets at the lunch meetings, I swear it. Marge keeps me on a strict diet.” He scratched the top of his head and squinted one eye. “But that diet’s not very tasty. Salad, salad and more salad. I try, but I can’t figure it out.”

  “Maybe you should start running again, like we used to.”

  “Ah,” he nodded, “I miss that. Well, your company, not so much the running.”

  His full name was Ted C. Howard, and Sidney still didn’t know what the C stood for. He was the first assistant director she’d worked for. Over fifty years old now, Ted still had the thick-set frame of his football days that he always loved to talk about. He was a good man. Energetic. A good mentor. He’d taught her a little about everything�
�and a lot about little, when he started to ramble. He was like family. An uncle of sorts.

  “So, how was Alabama?” he asked.

  “Hot.”

  “Good country down there,” he said. “Nice fishing. Nice people.”

  “Not where I was,” she said, smiling. She bent over and redid the laces on her shoes. “But I’m sure you’d find good company.”

  “True,” he said. “Did I ever tell you about the last time I was down there? I was thirty-nine and …”

  Aw crap. Here we go. Cut him off before you end up in tomorrow.

  “Yes, you told me,” she interrupted. Maybe Ted had told the story, and maybe he hadn’t, but she was pretty sure she’d heard them all. Some of them two or three times, as he’d told them to other people when she was around. “What’s this about, Ted?”

  “Oh.” He seemed disappointed. “How’d your interview with Mister Smoke go?”

  Cocking her head, she looked him in the eye. “You know about that?” All she had told him was that she’d come back from Alabama. She hadn’t mentioned anything about anyone she’d met.

  “I spoke with Warden Decker. We go way back.”

  “Of course you do.” Ted had a catalog of contacts. He had access. If he wanted to know something, he’d find it. “And does your office have an interest in my case? I thought you were handling more of the border cases.”

  Ted reached into the pocket of his navy trench coat and pulled out a paper bag. It was full of nuts. He tossed one toward the nearest squirrel that was skirting by.

  “I’m not keeping tabs on you, Sid, but I have checked up on you from time to time.” He flicked another nut out. “But this was different. A little bird dropped me a wire of peculiar interest. I felt compelled to look into it.”

  “And?”

  “The Black Slate. I know a little something about that.” The creases deepened over his eyes. “I don’t like the idea of you working on this. The way they’re going about it is peculiar. It seems … dangerous.”

  Ted had never been like this before, and they’d navigated some dangerous waters. Why the concern now?

  “Danger’s part of the job. You told me that.”

  He laughed. “I think that’s a quote from a movie. It’s true, but probably much shorter and more eloquent than I would have put it.” He flung out a few more nuts where many squirrels had now gathered. “Don’t take me wrong. You’re as fit to do this as any. If I was in the field, I’d want a piece of the action too.” He groaned. “Don’t ever get promoted, Sid. They anchor you with cinderblocks to that desk. I should have been a cop. Did I ever tell you—”

  She grabbed his shoulder. “Back to the Black Slate, please. John Smoke? You wanted to talk about him.”

  “Yes, John Smoke. Now that’s an odd one. A good candidate on the surface, but all the paperwork below the surface is blacked out or missing.”

  “You mean I didn’t get the entire file?”

  “You got enough. I got a little more. That’s why I talked to Warden Decker.” He pointed at the squirrels. “Look at them. I haven’t done this in years. Crazy little rodents. I met a man once who had a squirrel living in the hood of his hoodie. It was after Hurricane Hugo hit Charleston. Construction guy. One of the strangest things I ever saw.” He turned and smiled at her. “In a good way.”

  She glared at him.

  “Sorry.” He flung the rest of the nuts aside and dusted his hands off. “Truth. Warden Decker likes the guy. But, we aren’t the only people taking an interest in him. Decker clammed up when I prodded him. Leaves me uneasy.”

  “Well, Smoke has neither accepted nor declined my offer, so maybe there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Interesting, but I assume he’ll take it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I just have a feeling. That said, be careful. I did some deeper research on similar projects like this that failed. The Black Slate is marred with a dark history. They’ve tried mercs, bounty hunters, and others of their ilk before.”

  “And what happened? It didn’t work out?”

  “They’re dead. Some, not to mention many of our agents—who aren’t even in that file you were toting—are gone without a trace.” He peered up at the Washington Monument. “I don’t like this, Sid. Just use extraordinary caution.” He got up and extended his hand. She took it, and he pulled her up with ease. “I’m serious.” He patted her shoulder and started to walk away. He stopped and turned. “Say, how’s the Hellcat doing?”

  Unable to contain her smile, she said, “Doing great.”

  “Hah. You stole her from me. I’ll never forget that.” Moving on, he waved. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Good seeing you, Ted. And thanks.”

  I think.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sidney’s eyes popped open. She rolled over and grabbed her buzzing phone. Sitting up in bed, blinking, she read the screen. There was an address. A time. And the text came from her supervisor, Dydeck.

  “Are you shitting me?” She checked the time. 4:30 a.m. She groaned and fell back into her goose-down pillows. “What does he want now?” she mumbled. “Ugh. Why does he get up so early? Why does he feel compelled to bother me? So early!”

  Her toes touched the cold hardwood floor, and she crept into the bathroom and started the shower. The small bath steamed up quick, and into the hot water she went and soaked it up. Five minutes later she was out, drying off, and on the go. She tore the plastic off her dry-cleaned clothes. Seconds later, she had everything on but her shoes and headed for the kitchen.

  The studio apartment west of Reston, Virginia didn’t offer much. Its eight hundred square feet was furnished from secondhand shops and goodwill stores. A mid-size bed, a small sofa, recliner and a kitchenette with two stools under the bar.

  She turned on the television and followed the blurbs on the news. It was Monday. Forty-five degrees and a rainstorm was coming.

  “Great.”

  She grabbed the blender out of the sink and loaded it with ice, protein mix, two eggs, fresh veggies and ice and blended it all up. Eyes intent on the news, she poured the mixture into a travel mug and rinsed the blender out before abandoning it in the sink. She snatched her bag from the kitchen bar, clicked the television off, and headed for the front door. She opened it and stopped. Something didn’t feel right. He fingers fell to her waist.

  “Ah!”

  She shuffled back to the bed and grabbed her weapon from under the pillow. A Glock 22. .40 S&W. Inside her closet, she took her shoulder holster and strapped it on. She paused, staring into the small closet. Another pistol and shoulder holster hung ready. What Ted had said hung in her thoughts. Use extraordinary caution. It was a strange phrase. The way he’d said it even more so. At 4:42 am, she was inside an FBI-issued Crown Victoria and rolling down the road. Fifteen minutes into the ride, the rain started in heavy splatters on the windshield. She turned on the wipers, which left streaks of rain, and the defroster wasn’t working well either. She wiped the condensation with her hand and sighed. The rising sun was a blur in her eyes. She slipped on her sunglasses.

  It’s going to be a long week.

  ***

  While she drove down the road, Sidney’s thoughts were heavy. Typically, she headed into the office at 8 a.m. She’d push paperwork for a few hours then go to meetings and briefings. That was seventy percent of the job, maybe eighty. The rest of the time she was in the field. When Dydeck called her out in the field, it could mean anything. Homicide. Drug busts. Stake outs. Talking to clients and informants. Anything dealing with problems or potential problems at the federal level. From time to time they were a cleanup crew of sorts, when the local brass of Washington got their hands too dirty. It was a part of the job she didn’t care for.

  Two hours later and south of DC, she exited the highway and entered a residential neighborhood along the Potomac.

  Homicide?

  Dydeck liked to surprise her. He was good about that. He had a way of workin
g them into a little bit of everything, which she liked. Most of the agents were assigned to a particular unit, but Sidney floated along the rim, where the full range of her talents could be put to use. She was classified as special field ops. Not to mention her paperwork. She was thorough, her wording in sync just the way the top brass liked it. The Bureau loved paperwork. Without it, they’d eliminate most of what they did. She hated it.

  Her brakes squeaked to a halt as she parked in the driveway of a contemporary one-level home in a lower-middle-class neighborhood. A For Sale sign was in the yard, and there were also signs in the other two yards at the end of the cul-de-sac. Two other cars were there, black SUVs.

  Why don’t I have one of those?

  Through the rain, she could make out one man on the porch in a dark trench coat, standing by the door. She didn’t know him.

  Aw, great.

  No uniformed local law enforcement. That ruled out homicide, but she’d been to plenty of these scenes before. The estranged family members or children of Washington’s finest often wound up in dark places: overdoses, suicide, domestic squabbles. The FBI often covered it up before the news outlets caught wind of it.

  She grabbed her gear, popped open the door, and dashed through the sloppy wet grass and onto the covered porch.

  “Agent Shaw?” the stocky man said, smiling. He had a warmth about him.

  She showed her ID.

  He glanced at it. “Lousy morning, isn’t it.”

  “You bet.”

  “I’m Tommy,” he said, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  She shook it.

  “You too.”

  He opened the door. “They’re all waiting for you.”

  Inside, the house was dimly lit by a lone floor lamp in the living room. There, three men in dark suits waited. Sitting on the large raised hearth was a fourth man in an orange jumpsuit, shackled with his head down.

  “Welcome, Sidney,” said a man standing off in the corner and putting away his phone. He was in his forties, well-knit, with his head shaven. His eyes slid over to Smoke and back to her. “Well, what do you think?”