Dead East

by Steve Winshel

  Jarvis killed the television and stared at the blank screen as its glow faded to true black. He didn’t need to pull out the papers with names, numbers, and addresses from a couple weeks ago. Denver had been one of the locations. No red ink, so they’d assumed no poison yet. And Timmons had said they’d cleaned up all the loose ends. And another thing…people got food poisoning all the time and Denver was not immune. He couldn’t attribute every tummy ache or CDC report as evidence the Taliban had somehow evaded Homeland Security. Jarvis still had indigestion from the burrito he’d gotten at the truck on Wilshire earlier. He was pretty sure it wasn’t a plot. No reason to see monsters in the shadows.

  But still. He picked up his cell and found Timmons’ number. The agent picked up before the first ring was done. “Timmons. Who’s this?”

  “You forget so quickly.” He waited a moment. Timmons wouldn’t have kept Jarvis’ number in his contact list, but he didn’t mind screwing a little with the agent. “E coli outbreak in Denver?”

  Timmons let his breath out heavily. “Jarvis. Yeah, I saw that. My guys are looking into it. Probably just some moron leaving the meat out on the counter too long.” Jarivs didn’t respond. Timmons waited, then filled the silence. “It’s a little suspicious, but we’ve got it covered.”

  “My confidence is oozing. You sure you got everyone on the list?”

  Timmons sounded irritated for a moment. “Yeah, we got everyone. Everyone we knew about – but we don’t know that the intel you got was comprehensive.” He recognized the fallacy of the comment – it wasn’t Jarvis and Brin’s job to conduct an international investigation. Timmons’ voice smoothed out. “You’re right, we’re checking carefully. We don’t want to have missed any cells. You and your buddy saved a lot of lives – it’s our job to make sure it stays that way and nothing is missed.”

  Jarvis murmured some encouraging sounds of agreement. He recognized bullshit when it was flung. “Okay, if you’ve got it under control, then I won’t ride to the rescue.”

  “You did a real service for your country last month – again. By keeping it quiet, too. Your name’s been mentioned a few times around here. If you ever need anything…”

  Jarvis thanked him and hung up. Everything was cool. No reason to worry or take action. He should just let Timmons handle everything. He flipped open the laptop on the coffee table and booked a ticket to Denver for the next morning.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The two-hour flight was uneventful. Jarvis had booked a hotel in the Denver suburb containing the restaurant believed to be the source of the e coli outbreak. He walked past baggage claim to the car rental building. He climbed in to the SUV and as he backed out, the passenger door opened. Before his right elbow could complete the jaw-cracking swing he had instinctively sent it on, he stopped. Brin hadn’t bothered to block the blow, knowing the same instinct that had initiated the attack would stop it in time.

  “Yeah, I should’ve known. Did you walk here?”

  Brin laughed and pulled the door shut. “I got in an hour before you. Sleeping in?” The humor left his voice. “You don’t think this shit is food poisoning.”

  Jarvis sighed. “I don’t know. Timmons seems like a pretty capable guy. Homeland Security’s not all a bunch of Keystone Kops. But hard to believe they missed a cell out here.”

  He backed out of the space and headed to the exit. There was silence while he showed his license and rental agreement to the guard. They were on the long, flat Interstate 75 in minutes.

  “Someone’s been trying to find me.” Brin didn’t need to emphasis the word ‘trying,’ since the chances of anyone tracking him seemed slim. That said, someone had lured him in and almost killed him at a deli in Beverly Hills. No doubt he was being even more careful.

  Jarvis took this information in and gave it the weight it deserved. “They must’ve missed someone, which is bad enough. It’s worse that these guys have the ability to make more than a half-assed effort to track you.”

  “It was more than half-assed. These guys weren’t total morons.”

  “Shit. Taliban can’t do that without some help. The connection to the Afghan government must be deep. Intelligence service maybe? Timmons is going to be pissed – and maybe out of a job for missing it.”

  Brin barked, “Yeah, that’d be a damn shame.”

  They drove another five minutes, reaching similar conclusions via different paths. Jarvis said it for them. “We need to track it back. From this cell to wherever the origin is. At least figure out where it is.”

  That sounded very good to Brin. “I wouldn’t mind a few more days in Kandahar.”

  “Nope, I don’t think we’d get very far. We’ll do our work here, let Timmons deal with the international stuff. I don’t think our visas to Afghanistan will work for a while.” They both appreciated the understatement – trying to get back in any way other than a military transport would land them both in a very ugly jail.

  “Yeah, okay.” Disappointment. “We’ll work this angle.”

  Ten more minutes and they saw signs for Bartleton. The Coco’s in the bustling megalopolis of 14,000 Colorado residents was the believed epicenter of a lot of diarrhea. They pulled off the freeway and made their way a couple of miles to the surprisingly strip-mallish town; they’d been expecting bucolic and quaint. They found their hotel by looking up and seeing the blaring Four Points By Sheraton sign. It was slightly less dilapidated than the nudie bar they had to pass to get there.

  “Sweet home, Colorado,” Brin sang. Jarvis didn’t correct his lyrics.

  He’d only booked one room, not knowing he’d have company. Brin didn’t mind taking the second bed. It was more luxurious than where he had spent the last few nights. Brin laid on the bedspread, dressed for both sleep and a quick escape into the night. Or battle. His clothes were always multipurpose. Jarvis sat in the one chair in the room sipping a beer and eating the surprisingly flavorful smoked turkey sandwich he’d gotten at the general store next door.

  “I’ve got a name from the sheets Mohan translated, but hard to believe the guy would still be hanging around with the FBI on his ass. Maybe he’s a suicide-bomber kind of dude, won’t go underground until the mission is over.” He took another bite. He screwed up his face but not from the sandwich. “Timmons said they’re looking into it, but either they got the guy before or not. He made it sound like they did and we’d just be wasting our time. You think we’re wasting our time?”

  Brin was staring at the ceiling, counting water stains. “I think he’s embarrassed they missed something. Thinks we’ll make him look bad if we find out.” He got to nineteen and couldn’t find any more so he started checking the wall. “I say we go make him feel bad.”

  Jarvis nodded around another bite of the sandwich. “Yeah, just in case.” Brin looked over at him. They hadn’t flown to Colorado to cover a ‘just in case.’ Both men trusted their instincts. “Let’s swing by the Cocos early and poke around during breakfast – that’s when the people got sick.” He looked at the digital clock by his bed. It was 11:54 pm. “We’ll wait an hour or so then go visit the name on the list. Just in case.” Brin smiled as he resumed his count along the far wall.

  “If we bump into Timmons’ guys they won’t be real happy.” He closed his eyes and played some scene behind his lids that Jarvis didn’t try to imagine. “That’d be too bad.”

  The hour passed quietly and quickly. They were in the car, headed to the address Jarvis had memorized, as the general store shut for the night and ushered out the last beer buyers of the evening.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Tired of carrying around incriminating paper, Jarvis had memorized the name and address. The SUV had, among dozens of useless fancy features, GPS. He punched it in and was surprised the destination was under two miles away. They passed out of the main garish part of town and along a darkened semi-highway. Expecting to head into a typical Colorado wooded area, they instead turned off into a well-lit planned neighborhood. The houses loo
ked new, largely cookie-cutter, and exceedingly dull. What they did have, in addition to homeowners association fees, was a spectacular view of the mountains to the east. The address was in a cul-de-sac comprising of three homes, mirror images of one another. Despite the pitch dark of the mountain night, the smogless sky let the glint of thousands of stars illuminate the streets like an army of tiny flashlights. Fake gas lamps powered by electricity – which was probably generated by burning recycled water bottles or compost piles in the back yards of the homes in the eco-friendly state – gave more direct light. Jarvis passed by the turn into the cul-de-sac, continuing on for another fifty yards. Most cars were parked in driveways. A few remained on the street. He turned the car around so it was pointed back to where they’d entered and pulled in behind a large, powerful, spotless extended cab truck. He’d cut the lights before pulling the u-turn. With the engine off the only sounds were the cool night air settling in and the whining call of some animal he didn’t want to know about, which was either three miles away and using the echo of the mountain or across the street and ready to pounce.

  Both men looked at one another and Jarvis nodded. “Let’s go see what’s what.” Brin gave him a thumbs-up and they softly, quietly opened their doors and slipped out. The doors closed just as gently and with barely a click.

  They walked down the cement sidewalk. Anything more surreptitious would look suspicious. There were no guard dogs, no Taliban gunmen, no trip-wires. Either they were at the wrong place or the resident in the dark house on the right side of the cul-de-sac had gone to bed with a clear conscience and no worries. Or he’d skipped town. The Hyundai in the driveway suggested the former. Jarvis went to the front door, Brin slipped around the left side, cutting between the poisoner’s house and the neighbor. Even from the outside, the house didn’t feel empty. Jarvis waited thirty seconds for Brin to get in position and rang the doorbell. No lights went on upstairs, no sudden glare of a porch light where he stood. He pressed it again and listened to the double chime work its way around the foyer and echo upstairs. Jarvis turned and jogged over to the sedan in the drive. He put his hand on the hood. It was only slightly warmer than the night air but that was enough to tell him it hadn’t been sitting more than a couple hours. He went back up to the door and edged past some bushes to his right and peered in the window. He could see past a darkened living room and a staircase leading to the second floor. To the right of the staircase a corridor led to what was probably the kitchen. A glimmer of light cut the darkness, as if the fridge were open or the microwave door left ajar. He craned his neck to see if there was an alarm panel near the front door. He couldn’t see it clearly, but a faint red glow seemed to hover near the wall if he squinted. If it was an alarm, it wasn’t armed. Fortunately, he was – Brin had been thoughtful enough to bring an extra Glock by whatever means of travel he’d used to get to Colorado. Or he’d used the extra hour before Jarvis’s flight landed to obtain a small arsenal. Either way, Jarvis was more comfortable with the pistol in his hand now. He returned to the front door and tried the handle. Locked, but no deadbolt. He pushed hard and there was a little give. Not interested in bruising the hell out of his shoulder, he took a step back and gave a hard flat-footed kick next to the handle. It shook his spine but the door shot open. The noise was close enough to a rifle shot that he was sure every light on the block would snap on. Just silence. It was probably a neighborhood that was used to hearing rifle fire from the surrounding woods as some non-vegan bagged a squirrel or moose. Jarvis moved quickly into the foyer and swept the living room with his gun in front. Brin would not have mistaken the sound for anything other than what it was. He’d be coming in from the back. They’d just have to be careful not to shoot each other.

  Jarvis cleared the living room and looked at the stairs for movement or a change in lighting. Nothing. He moved quickly toward the kitchen, his hand relaxing in preparedness for pulling the trigger if needed. There were no sounds in the house. He moved toward the glow that got slightly less subtle as he approached. Jarvis took the last few steps quickly to throw off anyone waiting around the corner who would have expected a slower approach. He saw a small movement as he entered the kitchen but it was sufficiently familiar that he did not almost shoot. Brin was hunched over a body. A young man, similar to the others Jarvis had seen recently, olive skinned and black haired. Maybe early twenties. It was hard to tell because the hair was matted with blood and probably a smattering of brains. A small caliber bullet hole was just off-center of this forehead, not much blood around it. The disaster that had been the back of his head was attributable to a large, marble rolling pin on the ground next to him. One good blow from a strong arm would have cracked his skull like a melon, his brain the ripe meat that was now exposed. The bullet was probably just an exclamation point to the murder.

  Jarvis could see the scene because the body was in front of the open refrigerator. A carton of orange juice had drained next to the boy’s body, mixing with blood. He’d been caught off-guard, just grabbing something to drink when he’d been killed. Brin looked up at Jarvis.

  “Ya know, this isn’t the strangest thing I’ve seen tonight.”

  Jarvis looked at the six-inch blade in his friend’s left hand, held in an attack grip with the blade pointing down. Even with the modest light from the fridge he could see it was sticky with blood.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t stab the kid for good measure.”

  Brin was scanning the room, trying to detect any movement. “The back yard butts up against a forest. Kinda pretty. There was a guy with a scope halfway up a maple tree.” Jarvis wouldn’t know a maple tree from a bottle of syrup.

  Jarvis looked at the body on the floor. “Yeah, that’s not a rifle hole.” He quickly moved from a casual position to a defensive crouch.

  “Uh huh, the guy in the tree was waiting for someone.”

  Jarvis nodded with admiration and dry wit. “You just happened to check the tree line before coming in the back.”

  Brin ran the knife against his leg and it came away clean – the blood had not had time to congeal. “Hey, better safe than sorry. I’m pretty sure that guy’s sorry now.”

  The blood covering where the young man’s skull had been was thick but still oozing. Jarvis stayed crouched and went over to him, putting a hand on his throat then chest. “Warm enough, hasn’t been more than an hour. Maybe a lot less.” He looked back at the front of the house where the staircase was. Brin followed the look.

  “The tree guy’s partner might still be in the house.”

  Jarvis nodded. “I’ve got two questions. Who killed the kid? And who are they waiting for?”

  “Yeah, I don’t really care about the first one. The second is a problem.”

  Jarvis wasn’t ready to give up the ‘who’ issue. It might relate to the more pressing second question. “Taliban handlers could be pissed if he went off on his own, ignored orders to chill out until the storm passed.” By ‘the storm’ he meant all the shit they’d stirred up in Afghanistan. “Maybe they were waiting for the rest of his cell.”

  Brin sheathed the knife and pulled out a Heckler & Koch P7. Jarvis hadn’t seen it before. “Nice piece.”

  Brin hefted it. “Thanks. Haven’t tried it out yet. Maybe tonight.” He low-walked past Jarvis toward the front of the house and stopped at the entry. “I don’t think it was Taliban, unless they’re recruiting Ivy Leaguers now.”

  The blood on Brin’s camo pants was red - it didn’t tell Jarvis anything about the sniper’s nationality. “You know…I’m not doubting you of course, but what made you think the guy in the tree wasn’t on our side – taking out the cell, maybe even Homeland Security?”

  Brin raised his eyebrows as if he hadn’t considered the question earlier. But he was screwing with Jarvis. “I was pretty sure when I noticed him flip on the infrared and target you as soon as you came into view. I could’ve asked to be sure but thought I’d just apologize later if I was wrong.” He smiled broadly and Jarvis returned it
.

  “Okay, I don’t like the way this is going. It’s making me kind of paranoid. The healthy kind.” He pointed two fingers forward toward the front of the house and then cut them left. He wanted Brin to go out and around the staircase; he’d follow and go up the stairs. They needed to clear the house of any hostiles – just bolting would make them targets. It didn’t matter who the shooters were originally after; they were next.

  Brin made his move without hesitation. He got past the door and Jarvis was hard on his heels when they both heard a click. They whirled in unison to the right, Brin even getting off a shot that thudded harmlessly into the wood of the front door before the concussion grenade went off directly in front of him. Jarvis missed almost the entire force because Brin’s body absorbed it. Two shots followed but neither man heard them, the concussive force on their ears deafening for at least a full minute. But Brin felt both. The first tore into his left shoulder and spun him halfway around, the second followed instantly and would have pierced the ventricle of his heart if he hadn’t made the partial spin. Instead it ripped into chest muscle, broke two ribs and came to a rest above the aorta. It wouldn’t kill him immediately but the shard of rib broken off by its trajectory threatened to puncture the heart. He wasn’t aware of the specifics but had a pretty good idea of the outcome as he fell on his back. He held onto his gun but the flash of pain followed by the sensation of floating and getting ready to die included a bit of paralysis.

  Jarvis took three shots in the direction of the gunman, but there was no visible target. His goal was to keep another bullet from hitting Brin and maybe dissuade the shooter from finishing them both off. He rolled back into the main part of the kitchen, shaking his head to clear the ringing. He didn’t know how many assassins were in the house and they had to be pretty good to have gotten past Brin’s paranoia. He was crouching behind a cabinet to the left of the kitchen’s exit. He could see Brin on the ground, bleeding out, moving one arm a few inches back and forth. His mouth was moving, probably mumbling a prayer – or more likely reliving some secret mission before he died on the kitchen floor. Jarvis tried to get his attention, signal that it would be okay even though it wouldn’t. Brin finally looked in his direction but Jarvis couldn’t tell if his friend was fully conscious. There was a hint of movement in the direction where the shots had come from. For an instant Jarvis caught Brin’s eye but his lids fluttered, his body spasmed, and he exhaled one last time.