The Good Soldier

by L. T. Ryan

  "I'm going to D.C."

  "We should be there in what, five hours?"

  "Not we. Just me."

  "Like hell. I'm coming with you."

  "Look at you. You'll weigh me down." I hated saying it. If I had to run, Bear would be a liability. "Besides, I need someone to watch over Jessie."

  "Screw you, Jack."

  Chapter 15

  I dropped Bear and Jessie off at a hotel in Petersburg, Virginia and swapped the Tahoe for a rental car just outside of Richmond. It crossed my mind more than once that the Tahoe might have been bugged. It was risky driving the Tahoe as far as I did. But I figured whoever was after me had proved time and again that they would wait until I was settled somewhere before striking. Why would now be any different? Besides, I still wasn't sure that they followed us to Abbot's. The hit on Abbot could have been in motion long before he told us to come out to his lake house. That made sense. The hit had been planned before he talked to me. Otherwise, why not send a team and take all of us out?

  I stopped at a convenience store and picked up a TracFone, then got back on I-95 northbound to Washington, D.C. The sedan provided a smoother ride than the Tahoe. I caught myself falling asleep more than once.

  I exited the interstate in Springfield, Virginia and stopped at the first hotel I found. Paid cash for a two night stay. The hotel wasn't fancy, a two story place with outside entrances to each room. I drove to the far end and walked up a flight of stairs to room 228. I ran the green programmed key card through the lock and the door clicked open. I stepped into the room. To my right was a bathroom. To the left a full length mirror followed by a shallow closet. A dresser with a TV on it leaned up against one wall. Across from the dresser was a queen sized bed. On the far side of the bed was a round table with two chairs.

  I pulled out the TracFone and the torn paper with Conners and the phone number missing one digit written on it. Blood stained the paper. Abbot's blood. My jaw clenched as anger built inside of me. I started dialing the number, stopping after the ninth digit. I tried to decide what number to press next. My finger hovered over the button labeled with the number five. Instead of pressing the button, I flipped the phone shut. Once I heard a voice on the other end of the line I'd need to act on whatever information it gave me. Right now I needed sleep. Sure, I'd been trained to operate in sleep deprived situations, and I had been since leaving the little house in Iraq. But now I needed every bit of cohesion and clarity I could muster.

  I took off my clothes and hung them over one of the chairs next to the table. Placed my gun on the nightstand and laid down. I was out within five minutes.

  I awoke in a dark room. It took a few moments to remember my location and why I was there. I sat up and turned to look at the window. The sunlight that penetrated the folds of the drapes had disappeared. I pulled back the shades and saw that it was dark outside, too. I grabbed my watch. Seven p.m. I brushed off the initial burst of anger and took a deep breath. Seven hours of sleep would prove beneficial. A pen and pad of paper were placed next to my gun on the nightstand. I grabbed all three and moved to the table. My stomach growled. I leaned over and checked through the drapes. A Mexican restaurant next door caused my mouth to salivate.

  I quickly dressed and left my room. Crossed the parking lot and entered the restaurant. I ordered take out and returned to the room to eat.

  I picked up the pen and wrote Conners at the top of the notepad. Below that I wrote the nine digit number and below that I wrote the numbers zero through nine in order. My finger had hovered over five before I had lain down to sleep, so I decided to start with that one.

  A raspy voice answered the phone midway through the first ring. "Hello?"

  "Is this Conners?"

  "Who's this?"

  "This is, uh, a friend of the Colonel's."

  "I know lots of Colonels. Which one?"

  I took my chances. "The one who's dead now."

  There was silence on the other end. Finally, the man spoke up. "Christ."

  "First guess. What a surprise." After a pause I added, "I was in the house when he was murdered."

  "OK, so you are who I think you are and I am who you think I am." He coughed. "We shouldn't say much else on the phone."

  "Agreed. Where can I meet you?"

  "Carlito's, it's a-do you know your way around the city?"

  "Well enough."

  "19th and I Street. You can't miss it."

  "You sure-" I searched for the right words. "Listen, Conners. People are dying everywhere I go. I get the feeling I'm being framed. But, do you…is this place safe?"

  "It is, and you are. Meet me at nine thirty tonight."

  The line went dead. I flipped the phone shut and set it on the table. I stood and peeled back the curtains covering the window and studied the parking lot outside. The hotel's lot was motionless. A few cars came and went as families stumbled out of the restaurant and others made their way inside to take the place of those who had just left. The cycle of life, somewhat.

  I wasn't sure about Conners. The cautious nature of our phone call and the reaction to Abbot's death made me think he was on my side, or a good actor. Aside from Bear, General Keller was the only other person I could trust. But I'd have to give Conners the benefit of the doubt. If the meeting turned out to be a double cross, I'd be ready.

  * * *

  I left my car in the hotel parking lot and walked two blocks to the Metro station. I didn't want to risk losing the rental in the city if things went wrong. No one knew I was out here in Springfield, and I'd be happy letting them assume I stayed in the city somewhere. The train ride took half an hour. I got off at the Farragut West metro station. A few passengers exited the train before me. I followed them through the station, staying close to a group of two men and a woman. Took the stairs up and emerged at the corner of 17th and I Street. I took a moment to get my bearings down. Across the street was the Farragut Park, a city block in length and half a city block in width. The park divided the north and southbound lanes of 17th Street.

  I walked two blocks to the west, away from the park, and found Carlito's. The tinted windows of the restaurant made it impossible to see inside. I crossed the street and walked up to the entrance. A blue neon sign formed the image of a Martini glass with the restaurant's name next to it. I opened the door and stepped in. A man in a black suit and purple tie stood behind a wooden pulpit and asked for my name.

  "I'm meeting someone."

  "Name of the party you're meeting?"

  I didn't answer. My eyes scanned the occupied tables in the restaurant. Eight couples, four families, a woman eating alone and in the back a single man. I walked toward the single man.

  "Sir, you can't do that."

  I looked over my shoulder. "I found him. It's all good." I continued walking, ignoring his protests.

  The man at the table looked around the room. His head stopped when he saw me and his back straightened. He looked to be mid-fifties, maybe older. Short gray hair and a gray beard framed his face. He wore a blue sweater and tan slacks. He stood when I reached the table.

  "Noble," he said.

  "Conners."

  I sat down on the padded leather bench seat across from him. A wood and glass partition separated us from the table behind me.

  "Hungry?" He nodded at the waiter standing beside the table.

  "Coffee," I said to the waiter.

  Conners waited a moment then said, "Tell me from the beginning."

  "I have a feeling you already know."

  "That might be true, but I need to hear your version."

  "Why don't you tell me your version?"

  "We can go back and forth all night, Noble. But if you want my help you are going to start from the beginning."

  "What kind of help can you provide me?"

  "More than enough."

  "You know where this leads?"

  "I think I do."

  "You think or you know?"

  Conners sighed and shook his head. "You're
not calling the shots here, Jack. Please, work with me."

  I studied the man's face. His blue eyes didn't waver. He slightly tipped his head down and lifted his eyebrows. An outstretched arm and extended fingers reached toward me. He looked like he genuinely wanted to help. I didn't have much choice but to trust him, so I started from the beginning. I told him about the first six months in Iraq, shifting between different ops teams, each time given less and less responsibility. I told him about the family and Martinez's behavior and then recounted the scene in the street when Bear and I were mobbed by the group of Iraqi men.

  "Wouldn't being attacked so close to the house be something that might have resulted in retaliation by you?" he asked.

  "Why's that?"

  "They were ready to kill you."

  "No," I said. "They were defending their turf."

  He shrugged and I continued telling him the events in order, as best as I remembered them. Occasionally he stopped me to ask a question or two, but for the most part he nodded as he listened to me rattle off the events of the last few days.

  The waiter returned to the table with my cup of coffee while I was telling Conners about Abbot's murder. I had to stop mid-sentence. I dropped my voice to a scratch above a whisper after the waiter left.

  He exhaled loudly after I gave him my version of Abbot's murder.

  "Quite a story, Jack."

  "It's more than a story."

  "I know."

  "Your turn. Spill."

  He looked around the restaurant.

  "I don't know how much I can tell. In here." He shrugged. "Now."

  I said nothing and gave him a look that said he had better talk.

  "Hey, aren't you worried about being spotted? Your damn picture was all over the TV and papers here."

  "Stock photo of me in uniform." I ran my hand through my hair. "Doesn't look like me with this hair and beard."

  Conners shrugged.

  I waited for him to talk while he took a few bites of steak and washed it down with the amber beer in front of him.

  I lit a cigarette.

  "This is a non-smoking restaurant," he said through a mouthful of steak as he leaned forward and scanned the restaurant to make sure no one saw me light it, like a lookout in the boy's room in a high school.

  "Don't care."

  "OK," he put his fork and knife down on the edge of his plate, "I'll talk."

  I waited.

  "Delaney," he said. "He gave you something, right?"

  I nodded, didn't say anything.

  "Did he tell you where to go next?"

  "A bullet stopped him."

  "Not yours, right?"

  I cocked my head and didn't answer.

  "Right, I know. OK, so…Delaney, he gave you a, uh, something that leads to something else." He lifted an eyebrow, waiting for a response.

  I nodded.

  "Only you don't know where to take what he gave you?"

  I waited for him to continue. When he didn't, I responded, "That's right. That's what I told you a few minutes ago."

  "OK, OK, Jack. I'm just making sure-"

  "Cut the crap, Conners. For all we know someone is twenty minutes behind me and is going to open fire in here in a few minutes."

  A couple of diners stopped mid-conversation and looked at me.

  I smiled and waved.

  "We're actors. Just rehearsing lines."

  They shook their heads and returned to their conversations.

  "Dammit, Jack. Calm down. Let me be thorough."

  I'd grown tired of thorough. I wanted names. I wanted reasons. None of this 'confirm you did this and that' crap he kept feeding me.

  "Greyhound," he said.

  "The bus line?"

  "Yes, the key goes to a locker at the Greyhound station."

  "What's there?"

  Conners clenched his jaw. Thick muscles worked in back and he pursed his lips together. "I don't know for sure."

  "Who's there?"

  "Don't know that either."

  "Did you work with Delaney?"

  "Yes."

  "Who do you work for?"

  "Can't tell you that."

  I took a sip of coffee. "Why can't you tell me?"

  "Because, officially, we don't exist." He waved his hands in the air, partly to be demonstrative and partly to waft the smoke away. "Officially, I don't exist."

  I nodded while keeping my eyes focused on his. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility. Even within the known agencies there were departments that didn't exist. I was attached to one of them. There were also men who didn't exist, men who were worse than Martinez. Men who did things that people refused to acknowledge could be done in the name of freedom. The things that had to be done to defend that freedom. Nobody wants to think of what actions must be performed to keep them safe.

  "Sounds like a cushy position."

  "Jack, you get those documents and call me. I need to take a look at them and then we can figure this out."

  "What's the locker number?"

  He shook his head and looked to the side.

  "B915."

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out the key and tossed it at him.

  "Here, you go get it yourself then."

  He pushed the keys back to me.

  "Don't be stupid. One call and you're locked up for life."

  I narrowed my eyes and stared him down for fifteen seconds.

  "That's what this comes down to?"

  He slumped over and placed his elbows on the table.

  "I'm sorry, Jack. That was uncalled for."

  I said nothing.

  "I know where this goes. Most of it at least. And if I go get those documents, and someone is waiting, I'm a dead man. Look at me." He waved his hands in front of his body. "If I die, then all knowledge of this dies. And you'll most likely die. As a traitor, too."

  "And if I go there and someone is waiting?"

  "You got more than a fifty-fifty chance to take them out."

  I sat back and crossed my arms. There weren't many possible scenarios, but each one that existed played through my mind. The best option was for me to go to the Greyhound station and retrieve whatever sat inside the locker. I reached across the table and grabbed the key. Slid across the bench and stood next to the table.

  "I'll call you in a few hours."

  "I'll be waiting."

  I turned and started to walk away.

  "Jack," he said.

  I looked over my shoulder.

  "Like I said, I know where this goes. If you decide to open those documents, you need to prepare yourself for what's in there."

  I walked back to the table.

  "Where is that?"

  Conners shook his head. "I can't tell you. Not until I know you are one hundred percent on my side."

  "You haven't figured out that I am?"

  "No. Once you return, I'll know, though."

  Chapter 16

  The D.C. Greyhound station was located on 1st Street, about two and a half miles from the restaurant. I decided to walk. I went a block north to K Street then headed east until I reached 1st Street. I figured the later I arrived at the station the better. Chances were the schedule thinned out at night, resulting in fewer people around.

  A cold wind blew down the street, numbing my face and carrying a combination of wood smoke and exhaust fumes. The sky clouded over. It looked as if a spring snow storm was brewing.

  My watch read 11:30 when I reached the Greyhound station. I walked up 1st Street and turned on L Street. Continued past the bus station and stopped. A tree in bloom provided cover from the evenly spaced black wrought iron lamp posts that lined the sidewalk. I leaned against the tree and scanned the area. The activity across the street was virtually nil, with only a few people here and there. A red four door sedan pulled up and dropped off a young woman, late teens or early twenties, probably heading back to college after her spring break.

  I scanned the parking lot behind me and didn't see anything
out of the ordinary. There were only a dozen or so cars, all parked close to the lights. They belonged to employees, I figured. There was nothing that resembled a government official's car.

  I pushed off the tree and walked across the street. The area behind the glass double door entrance was empty. I pulled the door open and stepped into the yellow tinted bus station. Directly in front of me was a large board displaying a digital schedule. To the left was a bank of windows. Ropes stretched out and across, creating a maze for passengers to wait in before buying their tickets. No one was in line. Only one window was occupied by an overweight lady reading a book. She looked up and then quickly back down when I made eye contact with her.

  To my right were several rows of seats in a blue and white checkerboard pattern. I turned and headed that way. The outside facing wall was blank, painted a drab brown. The back wall was lined with lockers, as was the area to the left of the seats. The place was filled with row upon row of gray and blue and green painted lockers.

  Only six seats were occupied, consisting of two couples and two individual travelers. None took note of me. I walked down the aisle in the middle of the seating area and took a seat at the last row. Then I watched and waited.

  I let an hour pass. I did nothing. I talked to no one. I let my eyes wander to the row of lockers and focused on row B. No one entered. No one exited. Nice and quiet. Part of me felt it was too quiet. Could I trust Conners? If he wanted me to go down, this was the perfect set up. I was trapped here. A tactical team would have no trouble extracting me, dead or alive. I brushed the thought aside. He could have had me taken care of outside the restaurant. The way I saw it, he wanted to get his hands on these documents as much as I did. If he planned on taking me down, he'd do it after I handed them over to him. The simple solution was to not hand them over.

  I got up and went outside, stopped near the glass doors and watched the sparse traffic as it passed. A car drove through the loop that ran in front of the building. It slowed near the entrance, but never stopped. Tinted windows blocked any view inside of the car.

  I took a deep breath before walking back inside. The cold air cleansed my lungs. I headed toward the rows of lockers and turned at the row labeled B and walked past locker B915. I stopped ten feet away and looked over my shoulder. No one followed me. I cut down a cross aisle and turned at row L where I grabbed the key out of a random locker. If I needed to stash anything, I'd do it in that locker. Probably the last place they would look.