Jarvis fired off another shot, wanting to charge out of the kitchen and wring the bastard’s neck with his hands, however many assassins awaited. A banging noise closer to the front door changed the direction of his attention, then a shot and a groan. A window broke and steps raced across the floor. Jarvis moved his gun side to side, not sure where the attack would come from or what was happening. For a moment it was calm, like the seconds before the grenade had gone off. Into the empty air a voice called out.
“Jarvis! Hold your fire! I nailed the guy pinning you down!”
It was Timmons. Jarvis wasn’t surprised. “Careful! I don’t know how many are in the house…Brin got a guy with a scope in a tree out back.” He looked at his friend, lifeless, unmoving. The dead young man was still by the refrigerator. It was a mess.
“My intel had only two guys here. The house is clear.” Timmons voice was closer and he stepped around the corner and into the kitchen, gun hanging by his side. He looked at Brin. “Jesus, I’ll call an ambulance.”
Jarvis stood. “Don’t bother. He’s dead.” No emotion in his voice. It would come later. He looked at Brin. “Nice fucking job cleaning up all the names on the list.” He pointed his gun at the kid on the floor. “Whoever took him out probably figured he was a weak link. Brin said the shooter out back was a pro, maybe someone on our side paid off by Taliban money. This is bigger than some pissed off Afghans trying to scare us off.”
Timmons shook his head and said nothing, waiting for Jarvis to finish his rant. Jarvis wasn’t done yet. “How the hell didn’t you get this guy? I knew about him, how could your guys miss him? What morons did Homeland Security send? Huh? Jesus.” He was more angry about Brin than governmental incompetence and Timmons was his only target. He looked at his friend on the ground, as quiet as if he were on a stakeout waiting to take a shot. Jarvis holstered his gun and put his hands over his face. “Goddammit. God Damn It.” He rubbed his eyes and when he pulled them away he was looked at Timmons’ gun pointing at his chest. He instinctively turned around to see who Timmons was aiming at, sure another gunman had sneaked up behind them. The space was empty.
Before he’d turned back to face Timmons, he’d figured it out. At least part of it. “Motherfucker.” Jarvis instinctively reached for his piece and Timmons cocked the hammer on his government issued Glock, which was similar to Jarvis’ favorite gun back home.
“Don’t.”
Jarvis paused. He didn’t know why Timmons was pointing the gun at him, other than that it was related to Timmons being the one who had killed the kid on the floor. The gunman outside in the tree was as official as Brin had thought – either a mercenary or rogue Homeland Security doing dirty work for Timmons. He just didn’t have the underlying why. One thing seemed fairly certain, though. Timmons had planned on killing Jarvis and Brin; one down and one to go. Jarvis felt a shoot-out in the air. He wasn’t going to just take a bullet without a fight. But no way he could draw his gun faster than Timmons could pull the trigger.
“You’re a scumbag, you know that, right?” He looked over at Brin. He needed to buy a few seconds, distract Timmons enough to have at least a chance to get out of the direct line of fire and pull his gun. He figured he had about a one in seven chance of not dying today.
“I like you, Jarvis. You’re a good soldier. You just don’t understand.” His eyes never left Jarvis. “You’ll die a hero, I promise.”
Jarvis recognized the finality. In a fight, the guy who does a lot of talking doesn’t really want to throw a punch. Timmons was done talking. His finger started to tense on the trigger. Jarvis felt like a soccer goalie – pick left or right and just jump. Maybe he could take the bullet in a shoulder instead of the chest and survive. From five feet away it wasn’t likely to work. His odds dropped to one in twenty of making it home.
His odds suddenly went up. There was a flash of movement on the ground at the same moment Jarvis picked the right side for his useless jump away from the bullet that was about to come out of the barrel of Timmons’ gun. He heard three sounds almost simultaneously. A grunt of extreme pain, a shout of surprise and anger, and the firing of the Glock. He’d picked correctly on his jump. The bullet went to his left, though not entirely because he’d moved to the right. The shot was off its mark, a result of Timmons reacting to his Achilles tendon suddenly rolling up in his right calf. That was a result of the first sound Jarvis had heard, which was Brin exhaling in agony as he pulled the hunting knife from its sheath on his leg and rolled toward Timmons, slashing at the spot just above the ankle to slice through the tendons.
Jarvis didn’t have a lot of time to wonder why his friend wasn’t dead. Timmons still had the gun and Jarvis could see at a glance that the effort to intercede was Brin’s last. He was face down, panting, knife in his hand but useless. Jarvis leapt at Timmons who was hunched over reaching for his calf but already turning the gun back toward Jarvis. Jarvis covered the few feet in a split second, arms wide like a linebacker. He hit Timmons full on, slamming him into the cabinet and breaking glasses inside. They slid to the ground, Jarvis on top. Timmons tried to turn and point the gun but Jarvis had his hand on Timmons’ wrist and twisted hard. He heard a snap and the gun fell to the floor. Jarvis sat on his chest, legs pinning down any squirming and stared at him. Timmons’ pain ran from wrist to ankle but his eyes locked on Jarvis and he quieted. Without breaking his gaze, Jarvis reached over and picked up the Glock. He put it against Timmons’ forehead and was silent.
Timmons knew the schoolyard bully rule.
“Talk.” Jarvis cocked the gun. “Now.” He could hear Brin moaning, no longer needing to play possum but desperately in need of medical attention. Jarvis wasn’t going to screw around with Timmons. He’d put a bullet in his head now and get answers from someone else later. In case Timmons didn’t get the message, he clarified: “I’ll put a bullet in your head now and get answers from someone else later.”
Despite the coolness of the air in the kitchen, Timmons was sweating. A few drops fell in his eye and he looked scared. Jarvis would pull the trigger sooner than later to get his friend an ambulance. Or not at all – Jarvis was a soldier, not a killer. Timmons’ brain raced for a good lie that would save his life.
“I…thought you were part of it. Paid off by…Taliban money…Look at evidence.” He was out of breath from the fear and the pain. He’d spent too many years behind a desk to have the instincts of a field agent any more. He tried to slow down. “The reporter, he was killed. You let Said live…it was, I thought…”
Jarvis moved the gun to Timmons’ shoulder and held it against the flesh. He pulled the trigger without breaking his stare into Timmons’ eyes. The Homeland Security man convulsed and a shocked look came over his face. The bullet passed through flesh and muscle but no bone or arteries. Jarvis wanted him alive until he put a bullet in his forehead.
“Bullshit.” The gun rested again on Timmons’ sweating brow. Timmons’ grimaced and tried to look side to side, searching for help or an answer that would get him out of this. He saw neither and looking back at Jarvis he knew his next words would decide it. The hesitation was too long and Jarvis jammed his thumb into the wound on Timmons’ shoulder. The agony was excruciating and Timmons’ back arched so hard it loosened Jarvis’ perch for a moment.
“Talk.”
Timmons was breathing rapidly now and could feel blood leaving the wound in his shoulder. “Okay, okay.” His jaw tightened for a moment as he hesitated to take the final step. Jarvis deliberately cocked the gun again. Timmons made up his mind. “It was us. We set it all up.”
Jarvis didn’t understand. “You set up the hit? On the kid?”
Timmons shook his head under the barrel of the pistol. “The whole thing. The Taliban, the poison. Everything.”
Jarvis leaned back, resting the bulk of his weight on Timmons’ stomach. He put the gun under his chin. “How? How the hell did you make that work? The Afghans set up the attack on the school to look like we’d done it. What the fuck did�
��” And then he figured it out. He pressed the gun hard into Timmons’ throat, cutting off air. He wanted to pull the trigger now. “You set up the whole thing. You worked with the Taliban so they’d RPG their own people and use it s an excuse to attack us here, in the States. And ambush my squad.” His voice got lower and darker.
Timmons’ knew now he was dead. It didn’t matter what he said. All he wanted was a dying declaration, a moment of truth to clear his conscience before he went to heaven or hell.
He gasped through an almost closed throat. “We did it because it had to be done.”
Jarvis looked at him like he was insane.
“People were going to forget, get lazy. This country always does that – wait until a crisis, make a big fuss, then forget…” He was speaking slowly, as if in a courtroom giving evidence, but it was hard with the pain, the bleeding, and Jarvis on top of him. “People would let their guard down, they’d forget…” He swallowed hard. “Funding was going to dry up. We…we wouldn’t be able to do…”
Jarvis sat upright as if hit by a jolt of electricity. Funding. He pulled his arm away and swung the gun hard against Timmon’s left temple. The agent felt nothing and was immediately unconscious. Jarvis stood up, shaky for the first time. Funding.
He went to the phone on the wall, and old-style landline. He dialed 911. “I need an ambulance. A man’s been shot. Two men. One may make it.” He hung up and pulled out his cell phone, dialing Rayford back in LA.
“It’s Jarvis. I’m going to call you back in ten minutes, but you’ll want to wake up your FBI buddy and have him ring the Denver branch right now.” He clicked off before Rayford could ask any questions. Jarvis finally went over to his friend. He put his hand on Brin’s shoulder. There wasn’t as much blood as he’d expected. It was a bad sign.
“Just hang on, man. Help’ll be here soon.” He felt for a pulse. It was weak and thready. Brin was slipping in and out of consciousness. His breath was shallow and caught in his throat. He couldn’t move but was whispering something into the floor, face down. Jarvis leaned in, his ear close to Brin’s lips. He could just make out the words.
“Still…not…even…”
Jarvis smiled despite Brin’s pain and held his hand on his friend’s shoulder as a siren far in the distance slowly got louder.
Chapter Forty-Six
Jarvis settled into the chair. It was only moderately uncomfortable. He put his feet up on the edge of the bed and leaned back. He counted water stains on the ceiling. It was 2:06 a.m. and there were too many sounds in the air for this time of the morning. But they were comforting and familiar. The most comforting was the steady sound of Brin breathing, deeply asleep. Jarvis shifted his feet a little further down the hospital bed in case his buddy shifted in the night. He pulled out the small notebook from his shirt pocket and flicked on the pen he’d taken from the Denver hotel room. Sleep was almost on him and an idea for a television series was brewing in his brain. He drew a couple of lines on the paper to start the ink flowing from the cheap pen.
A couple of buddies rent a house in LA while they figure out what they want to do with their lives. Regular guys, except they’re crime-fighters when no one’s looking. Modern-day superheroes. One apparently can’t die no matter how many times he gets shot. The other seems to spend a lot of time cleaning up messes. Hijinks ensue.
He yawned and put the notebook away. Maybe Brad Pitt for the Jarvis character. Brin would want Schwarzenegger or Stallone. They’d figure it out later. Jarvis closed his eyes and counted the beeps of the pulse monitor for a minute or two. It began to match his own, low 40s, and he drifted off thinking about how he was going to have to take a gig that actually paid, since no one was going to reimburse him for his out-of-pocket expenses shutting down a conspiracy that killed dozens and could have wreaked havoc for years. He’d check his email and vmail when he got home.
An hour later, when the nurse came to check on Brin, Jarvis was on the freeway.
If you enjoyed Dead East, then you may want to read Murder in Mind, another thriller by Steve Winshel. The work is available for sale where ever ebooks are sold
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Please turn the page for the first two chapters from Murder in Mind.
Chapter One
The cell phone vibrated against the cup holder and McNair could faintly hear it beneath the blaring radio. He turned down the music and reached for the phone, stealing a quick glance at the number of the caller, then put eyes back on the darkened road curving ahead. It was a patient, ringing his emergency number at nine o’clock at night. They only did that if it was important. He closed the phone and tossed it onto the empty passenger seat. Hitting the accelerator, he made the back tires skid and thought about home, a beer, and a steak on the grill.
The phone went to voicemail and a woman began to plead. “Please, please, Dr. McNair…call me. Please call me back.” Miles from where McNair drove through the night, she held the phone close to her face, the glowing dial pad playing with the dark closet interior. Shadows from her clothes slashed across her face. There was no lock on the closet but there was a flimsy one on the bedroom door and she prayed it was stronger than it looked. She pushed back further into the corner, the tips of a pair of shoes poking her, angering the bruise above her kidney where her husband had hit her with the base of the lamp.
She hung up and then hit the ON button to get another dial tone. She could hear it echo in the room and quickly covered the ear hole. She knew she should call 911, wanted to call the police, but her fingers hesitated just above the pad. She looked at her hand instead of the phone and saw the cracked, bleeding nail. Ten minutes earlier she’d clawed at the ground, then at her husband’s arms, as his hands closed around her throat. He’d stopped – the, wild, distant look in his eyes fading for a moment, and the apologies had started to pour out. She’d run upstairs, banging into the wall as she made the turn on the first step going too fast. He’d called after her, wanting her to come back so he could make it right. His soothing voice started to change as she continued to hide. He started to sound irritated, then angry when she failed to come back and let him show her everything would be okay. And now he was on the stairs, demanding she come down, more strident with each step toward the bedroom.
Helen could feel the bile rising in her throat. Fear, pain, and guilt skewed her mind. She dialed, but it was McNair’s number again. Her therapist would know what to do, tell her what to do. It went straight to voicemail. Before she could leave another message, the door handle in the bedroom jiggled, then violently shook. In a split second she heard it explode inward, wood splintering and the jamb slamming against the wall with the force of her husband’s kick.
There was no hesitation in his footsteps. He came straight to the closet and pulled the door open.
“Oh, god, no, no…please, I’m sorry…no.” She tried to press back into a space that wasn’t there. The phone dropped between her legs. He grabbed her hair and wrenched her from the closet, half dragging her across the room as her legs kicked at the ground to keep from falling. He said nothing, only drawing in short, ragged breaths that rasped like nails on metal. He re-gathered a fist full of hair, his grip hard and rigid. Out the bedroom, and toward the stairs. She struggled to gain her balance, reached for the railing as they got to the first step. He pulled her down, his pace steady and uninterrupted by her flailing and grasping at the banister. Her knees banged sharply on the wooden edges of each step, her neck twisted and pain shot down her arms and back. The last few steps she gave up and he slid her like a rolled up carpet. At the bottom he changed his grip and locked onto her shoulder, fingers digging deep into the skin. Pulling her like a log at the end of a sharp hook, he dragged her onto the Persian rug in the living room. He stood fully, hands on his hips, and took a couple deep breaths. His eyes were far away. She laid limply, looking up at him, and when their eyes locked he gave her a sharp kick in the stomach
that blew out what little breath she had.
On the glass coffee table, a pack of cigarettes sat next to a large picture book, Los Angeles From Above. He picked up the pack and fished out one of the last cigarettes. The lighter took only one try to catch, and Helen began to whimper.
Half an hour later, McNair tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter and pulled a beer from the refrigerator. Leaning back on the counter, he flipped open his phone. Two messages. He listened to the first and frowned. Helen Burrows having trouble with the husband again. He probably should have picked up and talked her down. He deleted the message and waited for the second as he drained the bottle, eyes looking around the kitchen for something to put on the steak. He stopped, half an inch of beer still remaining, and put the bottle on the counter. He stared at the fridge but his mind was elsewhere. Helen’s voice was scared, terrified. He could hear the crash, then her sudden yelp and the phone hitting the ground. The rest was muffled, but angry and violent. His voicemail limited messages to one minute. He listened carefully, straining to hear, as the recording continued. There was a series of banging noises, sounds of terror. McNair hit “9” to save the message and in one quick motion picked up his keys and headed to the door, dialing 911. He identified himself as a doctor and gave the name and address of Helen Burrows and a one sentence summary of what had happened – or was happening. He was in the car and racing down the darkened Pacific Coast Highway before he’d hung up.
Dead East Page 22
