Aim And Fire r5-3

by Cliff Ryder

  The balding, bespectacled tech mixing up a batch of plaster of paris glanced up to see the sweating bottle hovering above him. “Hey, Nate, thanks.” He drained half the water in long swallows. “Aren’t you on leave pending that drug-bust investigation?”

  “What can I say, I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  Kottke handed the bottle back and kept stirring the plaster. “Better check your zip code, then. You’re aimin’ to bust Travis’s balls again, aren’t you?”

  “Won’t be a need to as long as he don’t come around and try stickin’ them in my face. What you got so far?”

  “Right now, just the three B s—bullets, blood and bodies. Looks like one of the agents spooked someone they shouldn’t have, and got perforated for his trouble. Second one came around to assist, got the same thing, then the per-petrators—anywhere from two to four—went to town on the illegals. Looks like machine pistols of some kind, all 9 mm. Different kinds of weapons, Ingram M-11s, maybe a couple of Uzi pistols. No survivors—these guys were thorough.”

  “What about the truck?”

  “Wheelbase and axle width indicate it was a 1.5-ton panel truck, probably a Chevy G30, maybe a small IH model. We’ll know more once we run the tread pattern. The two agents were dumped in the SUV, which was driven out five miles to the middle of nowhere and torched. Second team’s working that now—at least they were dead before they burned.”

  “Amen to that.” Nate repressed a shudder at the thought of how the Colombian and Mexican cartels killed undercover agents or screwups. One of the most common methods was to hang a tire soaked in gasoline around the victim’s neck and light it, guaranteeing a hideous, drawn-out death.

  “That’s about all we’ve got right now, until we can get everything back to the lab—”

  “Kottke, where the hell are you, that tread was supposed to be cast—”

  Travis barreled around the corner of the van pulling up short when he saw Nate. “Goddammit, get that plaster over there and take those tire casts now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kottke shot Nate an apologetic glance, then scurried away.

  “Now, what in the hell is an agent who’s supposed to be on leave doing sniffin’ around a crime scene he’s got no business being at?”

  “Aw, Billy, don’t get your tighty-whities in a bunch. I just thought I’d drop by to see if you guys could use an extra hand, us being so short staffed and all.”

  Travis got right in Nate’s face, his words spraying out only inches away. “Jesus Christ, Spencer, what part of on leave from active duty do you not understand? I am not going to have this investigation fucked up because of an off-duty agent who doesn’t know when to quit! Now go home and crawl into your bottle, or whatever the hell it is that you do when you’re not making everyone’s job harder.”

  “By God, Travis, you best step back before you find yourself flat on your ass. And if anyone asks, you can say you tripped and fell against the van door,” Nate growled.

  The other border agent glared at him for a moment longer, then stepped back. “Get out of here right now, Spencer, or my next call is to Roy, to tell him to put a leash on his dawg.”

  “Piss on you, Travis.” Nate spun on his heel and stalked back to his Bronco, hoping the other agent would push it and give him a chance to knock him on his can. But the expected hand on his shoulder never came, and Nate opened the door of his little truck and stopped to look through the window at the busy agents and technicians working the scene.

  Goddammit, that should be me in there, not that sanctimonious prick, he knew. He got into the Bronco, slammed the door and drove away in a cloud of dust.

  The sun had long disappeared by the time Tracy walked out of DHS headquarters. The old Navy complex had been given to the new department when the deal for their new quarters in Chantilly, Virginia, had fallen through just before they were to go live in 2003. At first there had been talk of moving to newer quarters later, but as time passed, those intimations had slowed, then stopped altogether.

  Now the behemoth department was stuck in the decrepit collection of buildings that were supposed to be refur-bished when time and budget allowed, which, in government parlance, meant never.

  After clearing security, which had been rigorously improved since someone had walked out with four pistols from the secure vault the previous year, she walked out to her six-year-old Nissan Altima, keeping an eye on her surroundings all the while. Just because she worked at DHS didn’t mean something bad couldn’t happen there. Driving off the lot, she headed north on the always busy highway toward Chevy Chase and her fiancé’s condominium.

  During the week, she stayed with him, since his place was closer than her apartment on the south side. Although Tracy always tried to let the stress of the day drain away on her drive, her shoulders were still tense as she pulled into the driveway, got out of her car and headed up the walk.

  As she reached for the door, it opened and there stood Paul, who greeted her with a kiss. “Hey, there. Another long day, huh?”

  “Yeah.” She slipped off her pumps and hugged him for several seconds, then slipped free and walked into the living room. “Late enough for a beer, I think.”

  “Come on, you need something to eat, too. I kept a plate warm for you.”

  “Is that the scrumptious aroma in here? Smells heavenly,” Tracy said.

  “Just shrimp scampi with linguini and steamed veg-etables. Nothing fancy.”

  Tracy raised a skeptical eyebrow. Paul was an avowed foodie, and a “simple” dish for him often involved hand-made noodles, seafood caught less than twelve hours ago and fresh herbs from his own garden. As usual, she marveled at how he found the time to do all that and work his day job, as well.

  Sitting, she allowed him to serve her with a flourish, capping the simple yet elegant meal with a cold Heineken.

  “This is wonderful,” she said between mouthfuls. “I almost feel like I don’t deserve it.”

  “Why would you say that?” Paul turned a chair around, sat and clinked his beer bottle against hers.

  “Oh, I baited Gilliam again.” She summarized the day’s events to him as she polished off the pasta. “But he deserved it, dammit, no matter what he claimed he was going to do.”

  Paul shook his head. “Sweetheart, you’re never going to get anywhere looking for trouble and butting heads like that.” Seeing her head come up, he held up his hands. “Not that I’m saying it wasn’t justified, but really, don’t you think you should pick your battles more carefully?”

  Tracy rose to take her plate to the dishwasher. “Yeah, but I’m just so tired of the whole thing. I know we analysts are supposed to be behind the scenes, but still, when the behind-the-scenes people don’t get the credit for a job well done, what else is there? Even though a lot of people would consider that a little thing, it was the thousandth little thing, and I’ve just had enough.”

  Paul got up, as well, moving behind her to rub her shoulders. “Well, if it’s that bad, like I’ve said before, you could always come to work for Globeview. With your experience, we could have you briefing units in the field in about two weeks, and actually making a difference where it counts, instead of battling the inexorable DHS bureaucracy.”

  Tracy leaned back into him, trying to remain focused on the conversation but becoming more relaxed under his ministrations. Paul was a lawyer for Globeview Security Systems, one of the new wave of private security companies that had sprung up in the wake of the expanded global war on terror that was stressing America’s armed forces to their limits. Ever since they had met at a military defense convention in Las Vegas two years earlier, he had been working on bringing her over to the company, and although she couldn’t help but feel a distinct dislike for what was essentially a mercenary outfit, there were times—like now—where it sounded better than heading back to the office in the morning. That thought also brought a stab of guilt with it.

  With an effort, she pulled away from him. “Paul, we’ve been over this be
fore, and you know how I feel. There are just some things I think our government should handle, instead of outsourcing them.”

  “It’s the wave of the future, Tracy. You of all people should know that there will never be a standing army large enough to cover all the potential conflict areas, and there are plenty of other areas where the U.S.—or other countries—will want to have influence without being directly involved.”

  “You mean carrying out whoever’s orders, no matter what the consequences are to the indigenous people and country. That’s how coups are carried out, Paul, as we both well know.”

  “So you would rather have hundreds of thousands of people suffering every day, while some insane dictator subjects millions to countrywide hell?”

  “Of course not! But what I don’t want to see is corporate boards of directors profiting from going in and toppling those governments, either, and then double-dipping by providing security to the personnel of the private companies awarded the ‘no-bid’ contracts to rebuild these places. After all, look at the Middle East, where contracts were just handed out to anyone who knew the right people.”

  It was an old argument between them, and Tracy knew her comment hit Paul where it hurt—his company had landed several lucrative reconstruction projects, all fairly bid for—through their connections on Capitol Hill. However, the no-bid scandal had tarred all of the PSCs with the same suspicious brush, and Globeview was feeling the pressure, as well. “Paul, it’s too late to get into this right now, and besides, we both know where the discussion is going to wind up anyway.”

  Paul sighed. “I just wish you’d be a little more flexible in your thinking. We’re doing a lot of good in Iraq—helping where the military can’t, and taking on considerable risk while doing so.”

  Crossing her arms, Tracy leaned against the table. “I’m not saying they’re all bad, but it’s an unregulated industry, and there are more than enough examples of PSCs overstepping their bounds and even participating in criminal behavior—I know, I know, not Globeview.”

  “Damn right not Globeview.” Paul was fiercely proud of their spotless record—while his company had been investigated for several instances of wrongdoing, no charges had ever been filed, and none of their employees had ever been tried by an international court of law. Several had either been killed or imprisoned in some of the Third World countries they had been working in, however, and Paul had been involved in assisting with their defense in those cases, facing kangaroo courts and bribed judges. “Tracy, the future belongs to—”

  “Well, it’s not a future I want to face tonight!” she snapped.

  “Tracy? Is that you?” A small voice came from down the hallway leading toward the bedrooms.

  Exchanging an accusatory glare with Paul, she peeked around the kitchen door into the night-lighted hallway.

  “Jennifer, sweetheart, what are you doing up at this hour?”

  The little girl tottered into the room on sleepy legs, her eyes fighting a losing battle to stay awake. She clutched a ragged blanket as she headed to Tracy. “I heard you talking with Daddy, and you sounded mad.”

  Tracy bent down and hugged her tightly. “Oh, no sweetie, your daddy and I were just discussing work. Now come on, it’s time for you to get back to bed. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” She picked up the seven-year-old, managing not to grunt with the effort, and carried her back down the hall to her bedroom. Tucking the girl back into bed, she pulled the horse-emblazoned comforter up to her chin and kissed her on the forehead.

  Jennifer’s eyelids were already drooping. “You’re gonna come to the recital, right?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetie.”

  “You know I’m playing the fairy queen, right?”

  “Yes, and I’m sure you’ll be magnificent. I’ll see you onstage with your wings tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Night.” Her eyes closed, and her breathing deepened into the regularity of sleep. Tracy gently swept a lock of blond hair off her forehead and watched her for a minute. While she cared deeply for Paul, and knew she loved him, her feelings for his daughter went far beyond a simple stepparent-and-child relationship. Jennifer had been terribly hurt by her parents’ divorce, and Tracy had taken care to let their relationship grow slowly, trying not to pressure the girl or to grow too attached herself. But the strategy had backfired on her, and now she loved the impish child’s every move. Indeed, she had bonded with Jennifer more quickly than she had ever thought possible—which frightened her sometimes. Although Paul and she were engaged to be married the following spring, and she was certainly committed to it and him, enough doubts niggled at the back of her mind so that she wasn’t absolutely sure it was the right decision. But where Jennifer was concerned, there was no hesitation at all.

  A shadow in the doorway made her look up to see Paul standing there, a smile on his face. Rising, she left the room and closed the door, leaving just a sliver of light from the hallway to fall across the bed.

  Paul shook his head. “Sometimes I think she loves you more than Marilyn.”

  Tracy slipped her arm around his waist. “I doubt that.”

  “I don’t—I see the way she looks at you—pure, unadul-terated love. By the way, we are on for tomorrow afternoon, right?”

  “Yes, I cleared that time three months ago, and have re-checked it every week for the past month. I’ll be there.

  Now come on, let’s go to bed.” Sneaking one last glance at the bedroom, and the sleeping angel within, Tracy led Paul across the hallway to the other bedroom.

  Traveling to Washington D.C. always left Kate with mixed feelings. While she loved the city where she had gone to school and gotten her start in intelligence analysis, there were also enough bad memories there that set her teeth on edge whenever she visited. Like the time she had just spent— wasted was more like it—with her soon-to-be ex-husband, Conrad Tilghman.

  She leaned back in the passenger seat of the Lincoln Navigator SUV and drummed her fingers on the armrest.

  “One thing I never missed here was the traffic.”

  In the driver’s seat next to her, handling the steering wheel with expert flicks of his hand, her bodyguard, Jacob Marrs, regarded her from behind mirrored aviator sunglasses. “You in that much of a hurry to pop some brass?

  Tillie must have been more annoying than usual.” His opinion of her husband was just a shade higher than the respect he had for pond scum.

  Kate grimaced and stared out the window at the Washington monuments. “It’s bad enough I had to sit across from him and his phalanx of lawyers for the past two hours. The last thing I want to do is rehash it. Let’s just get to the range—

  I’m sure I’ll feel better after emptying a few magazines.”

  “You’re the boss, so exercise your administrative powers and move this snarl out of our way.” Assigned to protect Kate ever since she had come to work for Room 59, Jake had taken it upon himself to train her in the fighting arts of all kinds, from unarmed combat to firearms. Since she was already going to Washington on business, he had suggested that they kill two birds with one stone at the range.

  Knowing how irritated she would be after the divorce proceedings, Kate had readily agreed. “At least it will be good to see Herbert again.”

  “You got that right.”

  The rest of the trip passed in silence until they reached the Maryland Small Arms Range, one of the few public firing ranges near the notoriously firearm-averse city. Jake pulled the SUV into the parking lot and waited for Kate to retrieve her gun case from the back. Room 59 operatives weren’t required to carry a weapon 24/7, but many did, with the appropriate concealed-carry paperwork, as well.

  While she enjoyed shooting, Kate rarely felt the need to carry in public, especially with Jake always on her heels.

  It was an attitude they had disagreed on more than once, and the former army Ranger hadn’t won her over yet, although he kept trying. Today, however, he didn’t say a word, but just followed her inside.

/>   Like many shooting ranges around the country, this one was utilitarian, stressing function over form. Kate walked through the door, her heels clicking on the concrete floor.

  Pale cinderblock walls surrounded them, and they could hear the rapid bark of several pistols firing.

  Confirming their appointment at the front desk, Kate led Jake to the lounge, where an older man dressed in casual but expensive khakis, a long-sleeved shirt and a shooter’s vest was seated at one of the battered Formica tables. His eyes, slightly magnified by the gold-rimmed bifocals he wore, widened with pleasure when he caught sight of her.

  “Kate, so good to see you.” He rose and came over to embrace her. “Jake.” The man exchanged nods with the bodyguard. “Still keeping her in one piece, I see.”

  “Hell, just keeping up with her is a full-time job, but I do all right.” Jake’s respect for the man in front of them was as deep as his disdain for Kate’s husband, as evidenced by letting the gentle jibe pass without a riposte.

  Herbert Foley had been the director of the Central Intelligence Agency when Kate had first gone to work there, and had taken her under his wing during the turbulent 1990s, when the agency had attempted to redefine its mission in response to the rise of global terrorism. He had been instrumental in helping her move to Room 59, and had also served as a sounding board and mentor for her since his retirement a few years ago. Resembling a kindly grandfather with his thinning gray hair and soft-spoken manner, his appearance disguised one of the sharpest minds in the city, undiminished by age, and still relied on by many in the intelligence community, all of which made him an excellent contact for Kate.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Herbert,” Kate said with a bright smile.

  “Well, we didn’t come all the way out here to stand around. Let’s get to the range. I’m looking forward to seeing what Jake’s been teaching you,” Foley said.

  They put on their ear and eye protection and entered the range, where several other men and women were already shooting, filling the air with thunder and clouds of burned powder. Kate stepped up to a booth and opened her case, revealing a 9 mm HK USP, along with a Bianchi 3S pocket holster. She attached a paper target to the track and moved it out to twenty-five yards. After checking to make sure she was cleared to fire, she slid a loaded thirteen-round magazine into the pistol’s butt, chambered a round and holstered the gun at her side, adjusting the rig for the easiest draw.