Reckoning

by J. B. Turner

  “About?”

  “Well, first, the gentleman you’ve chosen to represent our interests. Mr. Stone.”

  “He’s interesting, I’ll give you that.”

  “He’s also pretty wild, I’m led to believe. What happened in that place . . . ?”

  “It was messy. You’re right. But we came to the conclusion that it was far better to compartmentalize, thus keeping leaks to a minimum. Also there’s a strong incentive for him to complete this task. So we can move on to the main event at the end of the week.”

  The man smiled.

  Wilson said, “I appreciate we invested a significant sum of money into him and the facility in Scotland.”

  “I know. I picked up the tab.”

  Wilson nodded. “We lost some good people. Lessons were learned.”

  The man lowered his voice to a whisper. “He did manage to complete the core task we set him.”

  “He most certainly did. And this will be a way for him to repay the costs we incurred because of his . . . misguided approach.”

  “You’re squeezing him where it hurts.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  The man leaned closer. “He owes us. So it’s only right that there’s payback.”

  “Did you get the secure message I sent with regards to future financing?”

  The man nodded. “Yes, I did.”

  “What are your thoughts?”

  “I believe you need fifty million to guarantee a five-year timescale of future events.”

  “That’s correct.” Wilson picked up his malt whiskey, smelled the peaty aroma, and took a small gulp. He felt it warming his insides.

  “That feel good?”

  “Indeed.”

  The waiter returned with plates. For the rest of the three-course meal, they engaged in small talk. The weather. Real estate prices in DC. Afterward, after finishing the wine, the man patted Wilson on the back of his hand.

  “The money’s already been transferred into the Caymans account. Fifty million. So you can continue the work for another few years.”

  Wilson felt a great sense of relief. He had hoped and prayed that the fuck-up in Scotland wouldn’t derail the man’s financial support. “You’re a true patriot.”

  “Let’s clean up the loose ends before the big show.”

  Wilson knew he was alluding to neutralizing Mahoney ahead of their big objective. “It’s all under control.”

  The man got up from the table and shook Wilson’s hand. “Make sure it is.” Then he ambled out of the restaurant to the street, where a limousine would take him back to his six-bedroom, ten-thousand-square-foot Georgian estate.

  Wilson finished the rest of his whiskey and allowed himself a small smile.

  Thirty-Three

  The train pulled into Penn Station later that evening.

  Mahoney, a migraine coming on, looked at Stone. “What’s the plan?”

  Stone stared at him with cold eyes. It was as if he was determining whether Mahoney was in any way a risk to him. But then again, maybe he was just trying to figure out when he should kill him. “I’ll call you first.”

  “You can’t stay at my house.”

  “I’ll decide that.”

  “No, that’s where you’re wrong.”

  “I know where you live.”

  Mahoney felt sick as his stomach and throat tightened. “My family has nothing to do with this.”

  “They do now. So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to head off into the city and see what’s going on. And you . . .”

  Mahoney sat rooted to his seat as terror washed over him.

  “You will return to your family, enjoy your time together, and we will meet up again sometime in the next day or so.”

  “I don’t want you coming to the house.”

  “Like I said, I know where you live. But your family is not at risk. I give you my word.”

  “Your word? The word of an . . .”

  “I said, I give you my word.”

  Mahoney nodded. “I guess that’ll have to be good enough.”

  “If you go to the cops, all bets are off. Do you understand?”

  Mahoney sat silently in shock.

  Stone got up from his seat. “You worry too much.”

  Mahoney was in a daze as he watched Stone disappear in the midst of a throng of people at Penn Station. It was a fifteen-minute walk to his apartment in Chelsea. Thoughts were swimming around his head the entire time, almost threatening to overwhelm him.

  He took the elevator to the eighth floor and opened his apartment door.

  His wife looked astonished as he walked in, his two daughters throwing themselves at him.

  “Mark,” she said. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re here!”

  Mahoney hugged her tight and pulled his kids close. He felt pent-up emotion and fear building up inside him and broke down, sobbing hard. “I missed you.”

  His wife extricated herself from his grasp and held his face in her hands. “Honey, what’s wrong? This is so unlike you. First you tell us you have work to do, and now you’re back in New York. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.” Mahoney began to conjure up a white lie. “My doctor says I’m working too hard. And he thinks seeing my family would be good for me. I felt really bad saying you had to get back home. It was really inconsiderate of me.”

  “Don’t worry about that, honey. That happens. You look terrible.”

  Mahoney felt tears on his cheeks.

  “Honey, this is so unlike you.”

  Mahoney could only nod.

  “Where’re your bags?”

  He dabbed his eyes. “I don’t have any. I left all my stuff in Toronto.”

  “Mark . . . are you kidding me?”

  Mahoney shook his head as she wiped the tears from his eyes.

  “You’re gonna be fine. I’m glad you’re home. And I agree with your doctor. You work too hard. You’re going to give yourself a nervous breakdown. Didn’t I say that last fall?”

  Mahoney smiled. His wife had an uncanny knack of always making him feel good, even when he felt like shit. “Yes, you did.”

  After a few minutes of his wife and kids coming to terms with his sudden arrival, Mahoney showered and was glad to get into fresh clothes. His wife fixed him a pastrami sandwich, which he wolfed down.

  He lay back on the sofa as he felt himself drifting off. His wife was stroking his hair. She put on some Bach. The music washed over him. Relaxing him, knots of tension in his neck and back melting away.

  He needed time and space to think. He let his mind drift. To wander. He thought of sun-kissed picnics in the Hamptons the previous summer. It was an idyllic August week. The kids paddling knee-deep in the ocean. The breakers crashing onto the golden sand.

  His mind switched back to the present. He needed to reconsider his options. He could go to the police. But Stone had said they could get him here. Anywhere. He could confide in his wife. But that would just terrify her and the kids. The whole thing could spiral out of control, ending with Stone turning up and killing them all.

  Then he began to think maybe he should take his wife and kids and go on the run. Or maybe into FBI protective custody.

  Mahoney’s thoughts were racing away with him. His deepest fears were beginning to seep out of the darkest recesses of his mind. Help me. Help me. Think!

  The baroque music was wafting over him, working its magic for a few moments, allowing him to dream of possibilities.

  Then in his mind’s eye he saw Stone, unsmiling. Had he been sent to kill him? The same guy who had sent him the documents. It had all begun with Stone. Emailing the intercepted message that should have been deleted from an NSA server. The list of five men—the Commission—who drew up an assassination list of men and women they wanted to kill. And the reason? Because these people, including the late Senator Brad Crichton, wanted to move away from the postwar world of US global domination, regime change, and all the rest. The
endless wars. On and on. Millions of dead. Weapons to suppress, maim, kill, and buy. Uncle Sam had the best weapons, after all.

  Now he was on the list. Fuck.

  The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to run. Run far away. Run now. That made the most sense. At least at that moment. Then again, What if? What if Stone found them? What if they found him? He thought of the power they possessed. The contacts. The intelligence networks. They’d be found. And someone else would kill them. Of that he had no doubt.

  Mahoney’s stomach knotted as he began to realize the uncertainty of going into hiding. Drop off the grid? Get rid of all cell phones and electronic devices? But since 9/11, surveillance cameras were everywhere in New York. Even in the outer boroughs. Train hubs. Airports. Bus terminals.

  Then again, maybe he should risk it?

  Doubts were going off in his head like firecrackers.

  “Honey?” The soft voice of his wife recalled him to the present.

  Mahoney opened his eyes.

  “Are you OK?”

  “I’m just worn-out. A lot of things on my mind.”

  His wife kissed him on the forehead. “You worry too much. You always did.”

  Mahoney smiled as he closed his eyes. He felt a blanket being wrapped around him as his children were stroking his hair.

  “Daddy, we love you,” his younger daughter said.

  Mahoney felt tears on his cheeks.

  “Daddy, what’s wrong? You don’t seem very happy.”

  Mahoney opened his eyes. His younger daughter’s beautiful blue eyes were staring back at him. He pulled her close. “Daddy is just very tired because I’ve been working really hard for several months, seven days a week.”

  His daughter said, “That’s every day, Daddy.”

  “I know, honey.”

  “Mommy was sad when you sent us home.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I really am. I’m behind on my work and I’m under a lot of pressure.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re home, Daddy.”

  Mahoney hugged her tightly, never wanting to let her go. “I’m glad to be home too, honey.”

  Thirty-Four

  The following morning, Nathan left the budget hotel room near Penn Station where he’d spent the night. He stopped off for a cup of coffee. Then he took a ten-minute subway ride to Columbus Circle. His head was swimming with ideas, permutations, and possible scenarios as he walked a couple hundred yards to a tower three blocks from Central Park. He walked up the steps and through some glass doors, cameras watching his every move, before he strode through the marble lobby to the huge black-granite reception desk.

  “Good morning,” Nathan said. “I’m here to see Marshall Wilson.”

  The young woman smiled. “Certainly, sir. Can I have your name please?”

  “Name’s Stanton, Richard Stanton, friend of Marshall’s father.” It was a lie. A big lie. But Nathan knew brazenness was underrated.

  “What’s the nature of your business, sir?”

  “I’ve been asked to convey an urgent message to Marshall in person by his father.”

  A grave look crossed the receptionist’s face. “Very good, sir,” she said. The young woman pressed a couple of buttons on a phone beside her. “Janet, I have a Mr. Richard Stanton, friend of Mr. Wilson’s father, here to convey an urgent message. Can I send him up?” She nodded. “Thanks, Janet.” The young woman turned and smiled at Nathan. “Eighty-third floor. Out of the elevator, turn right, and Janet will show you in.”

  Nathan nodded. “Appreciate that, thank you.”

  Nathan walked across to the elevator and rode it to the eighty-third floor. The doors opened, cameras watching his every move. He headed to the outer office. A middle-aged woman with blond hair was smiling behind a desk. “Mr. Stanton?”

  Nathan nodded. “This is an urgent family matter. I’ve been sent by Marshall’s father. Do you mind holding all calls for the next fifteen minutes so we’re not disturbed?”

  A look of concern overtook the woman’s face. “Of course.”

  The woman ushered Nathan down a carpeted corridor to a corner office. She knocked and showed him in. Marshall Wilson was on the phone and motioned for Nathan to take a seat. Then he motioned for the woman to leave the room, which she did.

  Wilson was wearing black slacks, a pale-blue Oxford button-down shirt, striped maroon tie, and expensive black shoes. He winced as he continued a conversation. “Tell them we either go in at 2045 or we let them stew. That’s where I am, Frankie. That’s it.” He ended the call and shrugged, looking over at Nathan. “I’m sorry, you’re a friend of my father? I don’t think we’ve met.”

  Nathan got up from his seat and walked up to the handsome financier. “Name’s Stanton. Richard Stanton.”

  “What’s this about? And . . . have you got any ID?”

  “Of course.” Nathan reached into an inside pocket and pulled out the Glock. He strode up to Wilson Jr. and pressed the cold metal tight to his forehead. “So this is what’s going to happen. I’m going to ask questions and you’re going to comply.”

  Color drained from the young man’s face. “Who the hell are you?”

  “A guy your father knows.”

  “Do you want money?”

  Nathan smirked. “Money . . . Do I look like I want money?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hands on your head.”

  Marshall Wilson complied.

  “Where’s your cell phone?”

  The guy pointed at his jacket hanging over his chair.

  Nathan rifled in the inside pocket with his free hand. He retrieved the phone and put it on the desk.

  “Please . . . what’s this all about?”

  Nathan took a couple steps back. “Empty your pockets. Wallet, keys, etc. on the desk.”

  Wilson complied. “What do you want? I can get you anything you want. Do you need money for drugs? Or just drugs? I can get those too.”

  Nathan stepped forward and pressed the gun tightly to Wilson’s mouth. “You’re starting to piss me off now.”

  Wilson blinked away tears.

  Nathan picked up the cell phone. “Stop crying, son. I’m not going to hurt you. As long as you do what you’re told.”

  Wilson nodded, and a wan smile crossed his face.

  “So, what’s on your calendar today?”

  Wilson shrugged. “I’ve got a lunch this afternoon.”

  “With who?”

  “My father.”

  “Clayton Wilson?”

  The kid nodded. “Please don’t hurt me. I have no idea who you are or what you’re here for.”

  “Where’s the lunch?”

  “Vaucluse. It’s a French brasserie.”

  Nathan grinned. “Sounds like my kind of place.”

  “I don’t understand what you want.”

  “You got a bathroom?”

  The kid nodded. “Over there. Please don’t hurt me.”

  Nathan cocked his head and followed the guy into the spacious en suite with an adjacent shower. He shut the door behind him.

  Wilson began to cry, and a wet stain appeared on his crotch.

  Nathan said, “Turn around. Face the shower.”

  The kid complied.

  Nathan pressed the gun to the back of his head. “I want you to count backward from fifty, and then I’ll be gone.”

  Wilson nodded. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you. So count backward.”

  “Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven, forty-six, forty-five . . .”

  Nathan said, “Keep going.”

  “Forty-four, forty-three, forty-two, forty-one . . .”

  Nathan took out the fentanyl nasal spray from his blazer pocket. He stepped forward and sprayed it twice into Marshall’s nostrils. The trader gave a garbled moan and collapsed in a heap on the floor tiles. He was incapacitated in seconds and would be out of it for hours.

  Stone stared down at the young man sprawled on
the floor. It looked like he’d passed out. Shallow breathing. He locked the en suite door from the outside before he took the elevator to the lobby and headed out onto the streets of New York.

  Thirty-Five

  Clayton Wilson was nursing a Scotch at his favorite cigar bar ahead of another hearty lunch. He enjoyed the small talk with the bartenders as he savored a robusto-sized Ramón Allones cigar. But he was distracted, his thoughts turning to matters closer to his heart.

  He couldn’t understand why Stone’s handler hadn’t given him an update from the situation room in Toronto. He wondered why that was.

  The operation was set up deliberately in a cell-like structure, so Stone’s handler was unaware of what and who were involved at the secret facility that they’d developed. His job was simply to be the eyes and ears on Stone, working essentially remotely.

  Wilson didn’t and couldn’t interfere in the day-to-day functions of this framework. The systems had been set up by Richard Stanton to ensure secrecy. But also so those involved in the component parts at the lower levels would be unaware of the big picture. It was deemed that Wilson had to be insulated from any aspect of the operation. So calling the handler directly was strictly not allowed, as it would compromise the Commission. However, for updates and in emergency situations, the handler could contact Wilson on his military-grade-encrypted cell phone.

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and he wondered if this was the call he was waiting for. News that Mahoney had been neutralized was all he wanted to hear. The code words He no longer lives at that address.

  Wilson reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. It was a text from his son, Marshall.

  Running a little late. Will join you as soon as I can. M.

  Wilson’s thoughts turned to his son. He’d scrimped and saved as a young man to help the boy attend an elite prep school, Phillips Academy, at Andover, in Massachusetts. Hundreds of thousands plowed into school fees and then college tuition. But his son had blossomed. He’d learned the ropes at hedge fund managers in Connecticut and then formed his own business there in New York City. The contacts he’d nurtured over many years were willing clients, keen on serious investment returns.

  His son worked sixteen-hour days seven days a week, providing everything his wife and kids could wish for.