Bad Intent

by Jordan Cole

  “Can I get inside my cabin?” Riley asked. “Or are you gonna stand here flirting with me all night?”

  The lanky kid’s mouth twitched.

  “Give me your wallet.”

  “What’s that?” Riley said. He started grinning. “You want to kiss me? Son, I’m flattered, but that’s not really my thing.”

  The guy unleashed a string of profanity and charged. Swinging looping blows at Riley’s head, spittle flying from his mouth. Quick for a drunk guy, but slow for a sober one. Riley guessed the two bruisers behind him would try to wrap up his arms, and he was right. He ducked forward as they grabbed for him, under the flailing punches of the first guy. Spun around, so that all three guys were in his line of sight. One of the leader’s punches had grazed Riley’s temple, just barely, but enough to piss him off. Riley leaned forward, taunting him. The guy wound up a furious haymaker that never stood a chance of connecting.

  Riley dropped into a squat. Grabbed one of the leader’s lanky legs, off balance due to the toppling momentum of the haymaker, and yanked it upward as hard as he could. The guy was all tendon and gristle, no real meat on his bones. Nothing to anchor him down. He lost his balance and Riley jolted him up into the air. His arms flailed, and he came down hard on the back of his head. His skull bounced off the pavement and his body went slack. Lights out for mister southern hospitality.

  One of the bruisers rushed at him. A decent move. Aggression and strength, directed forward without hesitation. Riley could see someone with less training getting flustered. Trying to dodge, getting the feet tangled, ending up falling and having his or her head stomped into the ground. So Riley bypassed all that. Met aggression with aggression. Leaned forward and headbutted the guy before he could stop himself. All that potential energy turning kinetic in one thick smack. The blow hurt Riley, but it hurt the other guy a lot worse. He cried out, dropping to one knee. Riley kicked him in the stomach, twice, until he fell over, clutching himself.

  When Riley looked up, the third guy was gone. Usually how it went, in situations like these. The other two staggered to their feet and retreated toward the entrance of the motel park. Fine examples of Kentucky trailer trash. He felt no pride in beating on such easy targets, but they had started it. He rubbed his head. A dull throbbing there, like the beginning of a migraine headache. Great. Just what he needed, in addition to everything else. He stooped down to retrieve his groceries, which had somehow remained untrampled during the melee. Juggled them around and fished the cabin key out of his pocket and opened the cabin door.

  Agatha was inside, lying on the bed and watching the news, the picture on the motel television washed out and grainy. Her once vibrant red locks had been dyed black and trimmed into a short flat strip across her head, almost like a punk haircut. Like a completely different person. He tossed the groceries onto the bed and she turned to him.

  “I heard shouting outside. Everything all right?” The lack of concern in her voice worried him. Like she was already resigned to her fate, waiting for the hammer to fall.

  “Just some kids looking for trouble,” Riley said. “Out for an easy score. I sent them packing.”

  “Did you.”

  “For now. Hard to say if they’ll be back. With friends, maybe. Think it might be a good idea to move on.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Been here a few days already. Best not to linger in the same spot for too long.”

  She sighed. Riley pulled the beef jerky out from the grocery bags and tore it open. Shoved a piece into his mouth and chewed, feeling his mouth fill with saliva, savoring the salty taste. A while since either of them had had a real meal, and hunger was affecting them. Difficult to get the proper caloric intake, in a situation like this. Agatha rolled her legs off the side of the bed and sat up.

  “If that’s what you think is best.”

  “I’m doing this as well as I know how,” he said. “I didn’t ask to be in this mess, either. I’m not perfect.”

  She nodded disinterestedly. Dug around the grocery bags and came out with the chopped apples. Plucked them into her mouth.

  “Anything on the news about us?” he asked.

  “Nothing they’re telling the public. FBI is involved. You’re still a dangerous loner holding me against my free will. It’s been almost a week. Coverage will be starting to drop off, unless there’s any new leads.”

  “Right,” he said. “That’s good, at least.”

  “How long are we going to do this?” Agatha said. Opening the Vitamin Water now to go with the apples. “Am I going to be on the run for the rest of my life?”

  “No,” Riley said. “Not the rest of your life.”

  “You know you didn’t kill Ramirez. I know you didn’t kill Ramirez. We can explain things to them. It looks bad that you ran, but what choice did you have?”

  “We can’t,” he said. “Not yet. Not until we find the guys who did shoot him. The guys who are still after you, waiting for us to slip up.”

  “How are we going to find them now? When we’re barely keeping our heads above the water?”

  Riley walked over to the window shade. Drew it back with a finger, staring out into the dark expanse of the parking lot.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  18.

  Metzer sat at his desk on the fifth floor of the J. Edgar Hoover building in downtown DC, his window a small square overlooking a courtyard with a modest concrete fountain overrun by pigeons and the occasional squirrel. Clayton Riley III’s file was displayed on the computer in front of him, the man’s entire life history: his birth; his short-lived military career; his longer mercenary career; and finally, his last known abode, where he had allegedly shot dead a member of the MPD’s finest in cold blood. Metzer held a puzzle in his hands, a series of interconnected metal rings of varying sizes, wherein the objective of the puzzle was to separate them. His immediate supervisor, Deputy Director Alvin Hammond, had given it to him as a gift.

  Metzer had always been a word problem kind of guy. Crossword puzzles, anagrams, cryptography. Spatial brain teasers were never really his thing. For months he had clanked the pieces together, trying to make heads or tails of their assembly. He was no closer now. But he enjoyed the feel of the metal, the cold sheen of the solid links. Keeping his hands busy, and his brain active. One day, he was sure, the solution would strike him like a bolt of lightning, and the rings would come loosened like they had been that way all along. Right now, he was content to fiddle as he read over Riley’s file for what he guessed was the fifth time. Searching for any clues he might have missed.

  Riley’s history was interesting. Kind of a Rorschach test for whoever was viewing it. It suggested questions. Was Riley merely a headstrong iconoclast, a guy who played by his own rules, or a dangerous loner with a distaste for authority? The killing of his commanding officer was the sticking point. The evidence was spotty either way. The CO had ordered Riley and six other men to open fire on a convoy of covered trucks heading through their position. Convinced by intelligence that they carried dangerous insurgents, munitions, maybe even suicide bombers. A heated argument ensued. Riley was sure they were refugees in the trucks, fleeing the warzone. But his commander refused to back down. So Riley shot him and assumed command. In the end, the trucks were spooked by the gunfire and turned back in the other direction. It was never conclusively proven exactly who or what was inside. Forever a mystery. But the CO stayed dead. Legal prosecution for private military overseas was a hazy area. They couldn’t just court martial him. The case eventually went before a Federal grand jury. Some of Riley’s fellow mercs took his side, others testified against him. In the end, he was cleared. Rules of engagement justified his actions, or so the court ruled. His career as a government contractor hadn’t exactly flourished after that.

  Deputy Director Hammond, for one, believed Riley should have been convicted. That he should have been in prison right now, thus circumventing the whole mess of the dead cop in the first place. Metzer wasn’t so s
ure. He thought Riley’s CO had been overeager in issuing the kill order. The evidence that the trucks contained hostiles was spotty at best. But then again, neither Metzer nor Hammond had been there. Hard to say what he really would have done, if it had been him.

  As if summoned by the thought, Hammond came into Metzer’s office at just that moment, knocking twice cordially on the door as he entered. He was medium height, balding, friendly and dedicated to his job. Treated his agents well. A true bureau guy, through and through. He smiled down at Metzer, who placed the brainteaser with the rings back onto his desk.

  “Hey Ralph,” Hammond said, hanging on the open door. “New suit?”

  Metzer smiled. This was a running joke among the guys in Metzer’s division. Metzer had three suits he alternated between, with varying shades of navy blue. The implication being that Metzer was cheap, when really, he was just sensible. He failed to see the sense in being spendthrift when his existing trio of menswear worked perfectly fine. Metzer gave Hammond the finger. Hammond smiled back.

  “What’s news?” Hammond asked.

  “Just going over some background on the Riley case.”

  “Those bumpkins find his car yet?”

  “If they did,” Metzer said, “I haven’t heard about it.”

  “Must be gone by now,” Hammond said. “At the bottom of a lake somewhere. We actually got another call from the MPD this morning. This case just keeps getting weirder. Guess who’s missing now?”

  Metzer shrugged.

  “Liz Farber. Agatha Dumont’s boss at the magazine. Hasn’t been into work all week. Apartment’s empty. No sign of her.”

  “You think this ties in with Riley’s story? That it has veracity?”

  “Don’t know what to think. Unless he went and picked her off too. Wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Not good for the MPD,” Metzer said. “If it happened right under their nose.”

  “It’s their problem,” said Hammond. “At least until Riley pokes his head out past interstate lines.

  “It’s my case.”

  “Right. And you’ve been a wonderful liaison with the local cops. But there’s no sense in knocking yourself out about it while the guy’s on the run. He could be in Mexico by now. Until we get a substantial tip, there’s other work to be done.”

  “What about the Farber woman going missing?” Metzer said. “Isn’t that substantial?”

  “Could be. I’ll send you the police report. But her disappearance in and of itself doesn’t say much. Too soon to tell.”

  “All right.”

  But there was something bugging him about the case. Something just beneath the surface, itching to come out. Hammond left and Metzer continued his cross-checking of Riley’s file. Discovered there was a guy in Riley’s squad, Herman Henderson, who ran a security company in Arlington, not far from any of this. Metzer thought he’d heard one of the detectives mention finding Henderson’s number in Riley’s phone book. Possible they had conferred at some point, especially if they kept in touch. According to its website, Henderson Security was a respectable outfit that oversaw bodyguarding and private sector work, mostly for music venues. Maybe some tricks of the trade still left over.

  Then Metzer ran a search on Peter Saccarelli. All his previous articles for Accounting Magazine, archived neatly on their website. Nothing that jumped out. He then ran a search on Saccarelli in the Bureau’s internal database. Something came up flagged. Saccarelli had filed a Freedom of Information Act Request for a certain FBI operation. A counterterrorism sweep. Metzer saw the name of the operation, and thought back to the receipt he’d found in the book in Riley’s cabin. He smiled. Suddenly, it wasn’t so crazy that Riley might have been telling the truth, all along.

  ***

  Hammond had assigned Metzer to a case at the Virginia Port Authority; shipping containers being used to smuggle drugs, graft and bribery, longshoremen and stevedores being paid off. No shortage of that kind of thing, at any port across the world, and Metzer had handed the case off to two junior agents to check out while he made the trip out to Arlington. Despite his director’s warnings, the Riley thing was still his case, and Metzer certainly trusted himself more than the MPD or, God forbid, the Charlemagne county cops. He had a hunch--if Riley was telling the truth, and it was just him and the Dumont woman versus the world, then he’d confide in someone he trusted. Someone he knew from way back, someone who he could be sure wouldn’t sell him out. By all accounts, Henderson fit the description. There was a chance he could be persuaded. But with the killing of Ramirez, the situation had changed. Henderson had a business and a lot to lose. A tenuous link, but it could be the only way any of them could get a message to Riley.

  Metzer made the trip out to Arlington in good time, and found the headquarters for Henderson Security in a modest sized building located within a sprawling corporate plaza. He went through into the sleek lobby and introduced himself to a pretty secretary, who buzzed someone on her phone. Henderson came over from his office a few moments later. A big guy, dressed in a loud suit, with an aura of personality surrounding him. Cordial but wary, like many were when the bureau paid them a visit. Henderson wasn’t outwardly jostled by Metzer’s arrival--Metzer wouldn’t have expected any less from a former merc--but there were hints of suspicion behind his friendly demeanor. Something in his expression that suggested Henderson might have shared some of his pal Riley’s more anti-authority viewpoints.

  “Someplace we can talk?” Metzer asked. “Mr. Henderson?”

  “Call me Dallas,” Henderson said, although he sounded as if he felt obligated to say this. Led Metzer through the complex into a corner room that Metzer assumed was Henderson’s office. Henderson took a seat behind a cluttered desk, and Metzer sat across from him. Henderson smiled, curling his hands, one over the other.

  “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

  “No thanks.”

  “You sure?”

  “Really.”

  “All right.” Henderson shrugged. “Well, I reckon you’re here about Clay Riley.”

  “You’d reckon correctly. From what I’ve heard, he was a pretty good friend of yours.”

  “All due respect, Agent Metzer, but I’ve already had pow-wows with the MPD and the Charlemagne cops, in regard to Riley. You’re a little late.”

  “Better tardy than never,” Metzer said. “What exactly did you tell them?”

  “The same thing I’m going to tell you. Yes, Clay Riley is a buddy of mine. No, I don’t think he shot that cop.”

  “You think he was set up?”

  “That’s right,” Henderson said. “I do.”

  “Let me ask you this. Have you spoken to Riley recently?”

  Henderson breathed out.

  “He came in to see me a little over a week ago. A day before all of this went down. He was trying to help Agatha Dumont. Convinced there were people after her, that her co-worker had gotten into something dangerous that put her life in jeopardy.”

  “Right,” Metzer said. “Peter Saccarelli was the journalist. Ms. Dumont was one of his fact checkers.”

  “As far as I know.”

  “You told the MPD this? That Riley was here?”

  “Of course. Full disclosure.”

  “What did you think? Of his story?”

  Henderson paused. Rummaged around his desk and came out with a small brown cigar. Held up a silver lighter.

  “You mind?”

  “It’s your office, Dallas.”

  Henderson smirked. Lit the cigar, blew out some smoke.

  “His story sounded out there. Slightly paranoid, maybe. But I never knew Riley to embellish. If he said there was trouble, then I believe there was.”

  “Did he ask you anything else? For a favor, or anything like that?”

  Henderson took another drag.

  “No.”

  “Right.” Metzer sniffed, breathing in the heady tang of Henderson’s cigar. “He hasn’t tried to contact you since he’s been on the run,
has he? Called you for information?”

  “Well now,” Henderson said. “That’d be against the law, wouldn’t it? Aiding a known fugitive?”

  “Depends. He calls you, you talk for a little while, that’s on him. There’s no crime in that. Assuming you report the conversation to the proper authorities in a timely manner, of course.”

  “I haven’t spoken with him,” Henderson said. The cigar rolling around his lips, its red tip smoldering. “I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing.”

  “That’s too bad,” Metzer said. Leaning back in the plush chair. Comfortable. Expensive. Designed to sway prospective clients. “I’d sure like to get in touch with him.”

  Henderson laughed.

  “Well, wouldn’t we all? The FBI, the MPD, Charlemagne county. That’s kind of the point of this whole circus, no?”

  “Yes. But they’d all be looking to haul Riley in. I’m trying to help him.”

  Another drag on the cigar. If Metzer didn’t know any better, he’d think that Henderson was trying to blow smoke directly into his face.

  “Are you, now?”

  “Dallas. Let’s be real. We both know Riley didn’t shoot that cop. The MDP and the Charlemagne hillbillies might be hung up on the whole crazed militiaman angle, but you and I know better. I’ve read Riley’s history. Everything I’ve seen shows me that this is a guy concerned with honor, who’s nearly obsessive compulsive about doing the right thing. Fragging a CO who’s about to fill a convoy of children full of lead is a hell of a lot different than executing some poor schmuck detective who’s just doing his job. Don’t you think?”

  Henderson didn’t reply. Set his burning cigar down into a silver ashtray and waited for Metzer to continue.

  “Two people are missing, in addition to Riley and Agatha Dumont,” Metzer said. “Liz Farber has vanished. She’s editor in chief of Accounting Magazine where Agatha and Pete Saccarelli worked. Something is going on here, even if I don’t know what the hell it is just yet.”