by S L Shelton
“You’re early,” a deep voice rumbled behind him.
Nick turned to see a man, stout, and out of place among the picture taking crowd. Kobe—for years the hand-to-hand combat instructor at the CIA training facility called “the farm”.
“You are, too.”
Kobe shrugged.
Nick remembered the last time he had laid eyes on Kobe. It had been at Camp Peary where he and John convinced Kobe to come back into service to teach Scott Wolfe the finer points of killing by hand. Not that Scott had needed the help, but John had insisted on challenging Scott well beyond Nick’s ability to teach him anything new.
“I suppose those three scruffy looking killers in the tourist disguises are yours,” Kobe said as he reached out and shook hands with Nick.
Nick looked over his shoulder at the three SEALs with him. He thought they blended pretty well—all except for the rigid posture, suspicious glares, and an air of murder about them. He’d done the best he could.
“Yeah. They’re mine.”
“So, I’m assuming if you came back from the dead just to meet with me, it wasn’t to wish me a happy birthday.”
Nick cocked his head to the side and smiled. “It’s your birthday?”
“Why am I here?” Kobe asked. “I’m too old to be fighting guerrilla warfare. So, if that’s your reason, don’t bother asking.”
Nick shook his head. “No. I need you to talk to someone for me.”
“Who? And if it’s just a talk, why can’t you do it?”
“Michael Casey,” Nick said, stepping closer so he could lower his voice more.
Kobe’s brow hooked high on one side. “Why me?”
“You’re the only one I’m on good terms with who worked closely with him.”
Kobe laughed. “Who said you and I are on good terms?”
“Stop fucking around, please. This is serious.”
An angry crease formed on Kobe’s brow and he leaned toward Nick, their noses almost touching. “I’m being very serious. I’m not an operator. I’m not an asset of the CIA. I’m retired.”
“It’s just a chat. I promise.”
“The last time you conned me out of retirement, I ended up being shot at by mercenaries and almost had my ass kicked by some freak of nature with no heartbeat.”
Nick didn’t know if Kobe was talking about Scott or the Jagger that had tried to kill them, but he was short of patience, and his reservoir of diplomacy had just gone dry. “Some of those mercenaries just landed on the President’s Secret Service protection detail.”
Kobe slowly withdrew his nose from Nick’s face. In Kobe terms, a display of shock. “You mean the same guys who were shooting at us?”
“Some. Some worse.”
Kobe looked at the floor, his hand rubbing the round of his chin. He nodded after a moment. “I’m assuming you have proof of this?”
Nick nodded to Petty Officer Cooper who produced an iPad from under his shirt. He handed it to Nick. Nick handed it to Kobe.
Kobe looked down at the black screen then back to Nick. “Is it supposed to do something?”
Nick rolled his eyes before pressing the button at the bottom and swiping his finger across the screen unlock. The profiles appeared in the window and Kobe shuffled through them one at a time before looking back at Nick.
“Why wouldn’t their screening have picked this up?”
Nick shrugged. “It looks like the President’s Chief of Staff and DHS enacted a policy change to make sure that didn’t happen.”
Kobe squinted his confusion. “The Chief of Staff?”
Nick nodded.
Kobe turned and walked a few feet away, visibly shaken. When he had thought through whatever it was he was thinking, he came back to Nick. “I can’t just go in and meet him. That would be suspicious.”
“I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”
Kobe looked at his feet and tapped to a beat only he could hear. After a moment, he looked up. “How much money do we have?”
“At the moment, not much, but I was about to take care of that. I have to stop at the bank after we’re done here.”
Kobe nodded. “I’ll need a few things. Not expensive, but hard to come by…so more expensive than they should be.”
“No problem.”
Kobe put his arm around him, causing Nick to flinch. “Let’s go get some money then.”
Rarely in his past had Kobe ever reached out to Nick physically without it resulting in a slap or a punch. They walked to the pillars together and Kobe nodded to the two SEALs still inside. After they had passed, the SEALs strolled casually out behind them, one and then the other so as not to appear together.
“How’s our boy?” Kobe asked.
“Not good. He took one in the brain pan in Cayman Brac. Hasn’t been the same since.”
Kobe stopped and turned to Nick. “Is he gonna make it?”
Nick laughed. “The dude has been more of a machine since he got shot than he was before. He took down two of those guys like the one you met in the woods at the farm…pretty much single-handed.”
Kobe’s hooked eyebrow seemed an attempt to mask surprise—it failed. “How?”
Nick shrugged. “How does he do anything he does. It’s a mystery…right up there with ‘who killed Kennedy’ and why—”
“The guys who killed Kennedy are buried in the footer of the Smithsonian Museum of American History,” Kobe said, pointing casually in that direction as if giving a guided tour. “Ugly business. Rogue Soviet sleepers, American mob…ugly.”
Nick couldn’t tell if Kobe was kidding or not. “Anyway, Monkey Wrench is running the show.”
“Then why ain’t he here?”
Nick smiled. “He’s doing the important work.”
Kobe laughed. “Well, if this ain’t as important as what he’s doing, keep me out of it.”
“I plan on it. We just need to show Casey who he has guarding POTUS.”
They walked for a while in silence. Nick could tell Kobe was having difficulty getting his head wrapped around everything. But he also knew when he was ready to talk, he’d talk. There would be no subtlety in Kobe’s approach.
When they arrived at the bank on Maryland Avenue, Nick reached into his pocket and pulled out the cover ID and bank card he’d need to get his funds.
“Hang tight here,” he said to Kobe, then gave a warning glance to the three SEALs who walked behind them by half a block or so, two on one side of the street, one on the other. “You can hit one of the guys up for more info if you want. They’re all up to speed.”
“Yeah, right,” Kobe scoffed.
Nick grinned as he turned to go into the bank. At the kiosk, he swiped the card associated with the account and wrote down the account information he needed on the withdrawal form. After filling out the slip, he walked over to the roped line in front of the tellers.
He stood there, his head down so the brim of his hat obscured his face from the cameras while keeping a close eye on the other customers. From the rear of the bank, as he moved up to the teller window, two men with hard faces emerged, suits, military posture, and worse, bulges under their breast pockets.
“Can I help you?” the teller said, spurring Nick to the counter, just as his burn phone hummed in his pocket.
“Yeah,” he said as he pulled his phone out and looked at the message.
Its four simple words send a jolt through him: “Accounts burned. Don’t withdraw.”
He reached into his back pocket, cramming the deposit slip and ID in as he withdrew his wallet. “Can I get change for a hundred?” He laid the crisp bill in the window, then slid it closer to her. “Twenties please.”
She smiled and nodded. “Sure.”
He looked forward while keeping the two men in his peripheral vision as she counted out the twenties. “Anything else I can help you with?” she asked when she finished.
“Nope. Just wanted T-shirt money for the museum,” he replied, making a clear display of the twenties as he cou
nted them himself, then tucked them in his pocket. “Thanks.”
He turned and walked toward the exit, typing a text to Petty Officer Cooper.
As he emerged into the sunlight, one of the suited men called to him. “Excuse me, sir.”
He glanced at Kobe and discretely shook his head as he turned right, away from the front of the bank. Cooper had his phone out, reading, then walked casually across the street, flashing hand signals at the other two SEALs, Morgan and Boller.
Before Nick reached the parking garage next door, the SEALs had spread out in tactical approach behind the two men.
“Sir, if we could have a moment of your time,” one of the men yelled at his back.
As Nick turned, he nearly ran into a black SUV pulling out of the garage, blue lights clearly visible through the grill even though they weren’t lit.
He slapped the hood in angry protest. “Hey! I’m walking here!”
Before anyone could register what had happened, he walked past and turned through the stairwell to the upper parking decks. The two men in suits followed, joined quickly by three men from inside the SUV.
“Shit,” Nick muttered as he ran up the staircase to the third level. There he looked out over the edge and spotted Boller, aka Crow, entering the garage below. None of the others were visible.
“Sir!” A man yelled up the stairwell, fast footfalls climbing to his level.
Nick ran to the ramp but heard wheels squealing on the parking deck below him. The black SUV came into sight around the corner—trapped.
He ducked behind a sedan at the corner of the ramp and wrapped his fingers around the grip of his SIG. As the SUV rounded the corner, two figures emerged from the stairs.
“Spartan!”
Nick popped his head up for a split second. Cooper and Morgan stood at the top of the stairs, waving at him to come to them. He sprinted toward them and made it to the stairwell before the SUV could reach the top of the ramp.
“You didn’t kill ‘em, did you?” Nick asked as they went down the stairs, stepping over the suited men who had pursued him.
“No, but they won’t be waking up anytime soon,” Cooper replied, sweeping around the corner, his pistol held low.
“Good. Their transport has GS tags.”
“I saw that,” Cooper replied stopping at the base of the stairs and looking around the corner. “How’d you get blown?”
“Not sure. I got a text from someone while I was at the counter saying the accounts were burned.”
Cooper led the men out onto the sidewalk, Morgan taking up the rear guard.
The three walked to the corner. Boller climbed over the low concrete wall at the far end of the garage and waved them toward him.
“Did anyone see where Kobe got to?” Nick asked as they walked, hurriedly toward the next block.
As if summoned by the mention of his name, a Dodge four-door pickup rounded the corner and stopped. The four piled in and they were moving before the back door had closed.
“What the fuck was that?” Kobe asked as he turned onto 6th Street then made a quick left across traffic onto D Street.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to do some digging. The text I got said the account was burned,” Nick replied, looking over his shoulder at the traffic behind them. “Is there somewhere we can hole up while I check with the other groups?”
Kobe shook his head in agitation. “It’s just a chat, he says. No operator stuff, I promise, he says.”
“I’m sorry. This isn’t how it was supposed to go down.”
Kobe slapped him in the chest with the back of his hand. “It’s your plan ain’t it? When was the last time one of your plans ended the way you planned it?”
Nick tipped his head, side to side. “Fair point.”
Kobe laughed. “Yeah. Ya think?”
“Okay. This is an abort. Get us out of the city and you can be done with it.”
Kobe merged into DC rush hour traffic, stopped on the ramp to Interstate 395. He pulled up behind a catering truck and tapped the brakes until they weren’t moving, stuck in the daily routine of millions of Washington workers.
“Don’t throw the baby out with the dirty diaper,” Kobe said after a minute, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Let me think a minute.”
Nick looked back at the three SEALs behind him. Cooper shrugged then nodded. When Nick turned forward, Kobe slapped the steering wheel. “I can’t think. Need scotch.”
Nick nodded, staring straight forward. “That’s a better plan than I had…you lead.”
“Oh no…It’ll take more than a little scotch and you kissing my ass to put me in charge.”
“Okay. Then we’ll drink until we come up with a better plan.”
Kobe grunted something like an answer to the affirmative.
“But first,” Nick said. “I need to find out if the others are okay.”
Kobe turned and stared at him for a second after moving a few feet closer to the highway. “Is that a good idea? Would it help with what you need to do?”
Nick felt himself preparing a defensive response but realized Kobe was right—POTUS first, then find out what happened. Anything else would just be a distraction at this point.
“Alright. Another fair point.”
“Well don’t that just make me the goddamned Oracle of Delphi…I can see five inches in front of my face.”
Nick chuckled. “I liked it better when you were the strong silent type.”
Kobe shook his head. “Yeah…look where that got me.”
**
2:05 p.m. (Central Daylight Time) — Main Street, Goodway, Alabama
JO ANN ZOOK had been holding her bladder at maximum capacity for more than an hour. The nightlong drive to Goodway had been uneventful—she slept most of the way.
She offered to drive at six o’clock after they stopped to refuel and get some food, but Lieutenant Marsh had declined. Even then, the wear on his face showed he hadn’t slept in days.
As they sat on Main Street behind a line of pickups and farm equipment, waiting for a train to pass through town, her seat belt pressed against her bladder, driving her to frustration.
“I can’t hold it anymore,” she said and opened the door of their Honda Civic.
Marsh looked down the rails and nodded. “If we start moving again before you’re back, I’ll pull up over there.” He pointed at the parking spaces in front of the line of empty storefronts past the diner.
She closed the door and ran into the diner. She stopped at the counter on the way to the bathroom. “Can I get two cups of coffee and an order of fries to go?”
“Sure thing, darlin,” the hairnet-clad woman behind the counter replied. “You need creamer and such?”
Jo shook her head as she moved around the counter to the bathrooms. “Black is fine.”
After the urgency of the pressure against her bladder had been relieved, the urgency of getting to Storc renewed. She hurried to the sink to wash up but then caught a glimpse of her reflection and stopped, staring at the bags under her eyes.
She shook her head. This is not how I want Storc to see me for the first time in a week.
Not one for excessive use of makeup, she splashed water on her face, scrubbed the mascara from her eyes, then reapplied it and her eyeliner. Her once short hair was now long enough to put into a stubby ponytail. She did so and nodded at her reflection. Good enough.
On her way out of the bathroom, she nearly ran into a uniformed sheriff’s deputy heading for the men’s room. He looked at her suspiciously but continued on his way. Her pulse rose, but she smiled. “Excuse me,” she said with a soft southern accent.
When she arrived at the counter, two more sheriff’s deputies walked in. She turned her back to them and sat on a stool, quietly waiting for her order.
“What’s goin’ on, Bobby?” the woman behind the counter asked.
The two deputies sat on the other end of the lunch bar, one of them casting a dour look at Jo as the other handed the
waitress a thermos. “Some federal muckity mucks up in Montgomery called down and ordered the sheriff to block off Main Street up by the church, and Butler Street all the way out to Oak Grove.”
“Now why’d they do that?”
The deputy shrugged. “Didn’t say. All I know is we have to close down Main Street as soon as that train is done passin’ through.”
“How long do you think?” The woman asked.
“Till they say otherwise I’m assumin’.”
Jo put her money on the counter as the fries appeared in the kitchen window, wrapped in foil and tucked in a box.
The waitress saw Jo’s money and looked back at the window. “I’m sorry, darlin’. These two just took the last of my coffee. I’ll have a fresh pot brewed in a minute.”
Jo shook her head. “The fries are fine. I’ll just take two waters out of the cooler if that’s okay.”
“Suit yourself. It’s too hot for coffee anyway.”
Jo smiled and nodded as the woman took her money and made change. She returned a second later with the fries and a handful of ones. “You have a good day, now.”
“Thanks,” Jo replied as she took the bag, dropped a couple of bills on the counter, and left. She had her hand on the door when one of the deputies spoke.
“Hey, missy.”
Jo hesitated, poised on the edge of running through the door. Instead, she turned, her most authentic fake smile stretching her pale cheeks.
“You forgot your waters,” the deputy said, pointing at the cooler.
“Ah. Right.” Jo opened the glass door and took two bottles, tucking them in the bag with her fries. “Thanks.”
They stared at her as she walked out. When she got to the street, Marsh sat in their car, having not moved an inch since she went in. “We have to get off Main Street,” she said, dropping one of the water bottles in his lap. “They’re getting ready to shut it down.”
Marsh looked up at the diner then back to Jo. “Shutting it down, why?”
“The deputies inside didn’t know the answer to that either, just that it was a federal order.”
