by Bob Mayer
Delpino met his gaze briefly. “I’m sorry. I got to do it.”
“Why? Just tell me why.”
Delpino jerked his head toward the door. “Because Mike put it to me real plain. I take you down or we both go down, and both of us going down don’t make no sense to me.”
The other man, still whistling a tune D’Angelo couldn’t recognize, came over and tapped D’Angelo on the shoulder, gesturing at the door. “We’re going for a ride. Don’t make it any harder than it has to be.”
MARIETTA, GEORGIA
2 NOVEMBER, 6:30 p.m.
Pike handed a cup of hot chocolate to Giannini, then one to Riley. He settled down into a leather chair while Giannini and Riley sat down across from him on his couch. Pike’s house was near the Civil War battlefield at Kennesaw Mountain on the northwest side of Atlanta. “You think this Master fellow will keep his word?” Pike asked.
“It isn’t a question of him keeping his word,” Riley said. “For now, he’s got more to gain by following the plan we both agreed on than he does by breaking it. I trust him to look out for his own interests.”
“Until a higher bidder comes along,” Giannini threw in.
“There is that problem,” Riley agreed. “But Master wouldn’t be an easy fellow to track down.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” Pike said. “But we need to find him. And we need to uncover the people in the Witness Protection Program who are doing this.”
“What do you mean ‘we’?” Giannini asked. Pike graced her with a smile.
“That was a rhetorical we, young lady. I think I can find Master with a few well-placed phone calls if what Hammer said about him is true.”
Giannini frowned. “Then what?”
“These people in the Program have to be operating on their own.” Pike shrugged. “Even if they’re not—although I do believe they are— they’ve gone too far across the line. They are now a liability. There are people in power in our government who don’t like that. Liabilities can be embarrassing, and that simply isn’t allowed.”
Riley remained silent. He knew full well what Pike was talking about. He’d had more than his own share of trying to cover up “embarrassments” for the government.
“I have contacts in Washington and other places,” Pike continued, “who will be most interested in hearing about what’s going on in the Witness Protection Program.”
“I thought you weren’t at the top of everyone’s invitation list in D.C.,” Riley noted.
“That’s true,” Pike replied with a grin. “But I played the game for more than thirty years, and there are many who still find me useful once in a while. I have contacts the official people can’t use,” he added somewhat cryptically.
Riley understood just what his former commander meant. Running a private company, Pike was excluded from the scrutiny under which all government agencies found themselves sooner or later. He could do favors for people in those agencies—jobs that couldn’t be traced back as officially sanctioned. It was a shadowy world of favors and counter favors, and Riley had no doubt that Pike was on the positive side of the ledger. It was the only way he could still be in business.
“The first thing we need, though, is some names. I should be able to find out who’s behind this, but I’d like to be one hundred percent sure before I give them up. And I have to know more about what really happened before I can decide who to tell. This needs to be cleaned up as neatly as possible for your sake.”
Riley drained the last of his hot chocolate. “You find me Master, I’ll confirm the names.”
Pike stood. “Good. That’s taken care of. I’ll do some checking with my sources also. The other question I have is whether you two want to surface after the smoke clears.”
Giannini looked at Riley, and he met her gaze full on. He thought for a few seconds, then shrugged. “I think we need to stay under for a little while. Then let’s keep our options open.”
Chapter 23
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
10 NOVEMBER, 10:00 p.m.
Master locked the doors to the gym and walked out into the brisk fall air. He felt good, his body refreshed by two hours of weight lifting. He enjoyed working out alone after the regular patrons of the club left, and he paid the owner well for the privilege. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the dark buildings on either side of the parking lot as he walked toward his armored Mercedes.
Another set of footsteps, louder than the echo, caused Master to halt and turn. A slight, dark figure stood at the corner of the gym. Master reached into his windbreaker, his fingers curling around the butt of the Glock 10mm, when a woman’s voice called out from his left.
“You can take it out, then you can put it down on the ground and kick it away from yourself.”
Master froze, only his eyeballs swiveling to try and find the owner of the voice. He estimated the woman was above him, probably on the roof of the warehouse next door. He turned slightly and was rewarded with the red dot of a laser sight flickering across his eyeballs, then settling on his left cheek.
“She means it,” the man to his front called out.
Master recognized the voice and relaxed slightly. “Riley, I did what I said—”
“The gun,” Riley interrupted.
Master took out the Glock and carefully placed it on the ground in front of his feet.
“Kick it away,” the woman called out.
“That’ll ruin the finish,” Master complained.
“I’ll ruin your life.” The dot moved off his face, and he could feel a subsonic round flicker past, kicking up sparks as it ricocheted off the tar. The dot returned to roost on his skin.
Master kicked the gun reluctantly, putting about six feet of distance between him and the weapon.
Riley walked forward out of the shadows into the illumination cast by the streetlights fifty yards away. He bent down, picked up the gun, and tucked it into the back of his waistband. He was dressed in dark green jungle fatigue pants, a T-shirt, and a brown leather jacket. A pair of old, scuffed boots were on his feet.
“As I was saying,” Master continued calmly, “I did what I said I would. You and your friend Giannini—who I assume is up on the roof there—are officially dead. I kept my end of the deal.”
“We kept our end,” Riley said, circling to his right, putting the streetlights behind him. “We didn’t go to the press or the authorities.”
Master pivoted to maintain face-to-face contact. “Well? Why are you here then?”
“I just want to confirm some information.”
“What?”
“The people who made the contracts for the Witness Protection Program. We’ve done a little research—actually the information isn’t hard to find, since it is a federal agency—and the control staff for WPP is headed by a fellow named Getty. Official title, Section Head, Witness Protection Program, U.S. Marshal’s office. Civil service, GS-16 grade level. Although he does live well even for a GS-16. Rather nice house in Alexandria, wouldn’t you say? Six bedrooms, four baths, with an indoor pool. In that neighborhood such a house goes for what? Two million? Then you have a Mr. Tucker, GS-13, official title, Deputy Assistant for Operations, Witness Protection Program. Drives a red Jaguar. Has a rather nice boat docked in the marina.”
“A boy with his toys,” Giannini called out.
“Wait a second—” Master started.
“Then a Ms. Jamieson, GS-13, official title, Deputy Assistant for Security, Witness Protection Program.”
“Let’s hear it for equal opportunity,” Giannini’s voice floated out of the void. “She may even be a little smarter than the others—she doesn’t flaunt her wealth. It took us a couple of days, but we did find she was worth more than a million and a quarter in various mutual funds and stock options. She just had to keep that money growing. Should have buried it in the backyard if she wasn’t going to spend it.”
Master remained silent.
“There was a fourth member,” Riley continued. “A Mr. Simon Jenki
ns, official title, Deputy Assistant for Intelligence, GS-13, Witness Protection Program. Seems Mr. Jenkins—or shall we simply call him Simon?—had a little accident while out boating on the Chesapeake with Mr. Tucker, who was kind enough to fill out the accident report. It says poor Simon fell overboard—quite clumsy of him—and his body was badly chewed up by the propeller. His funeral service was a week ago and rather poorly attended, I must say. Nice coffin.”
A long silence descended over the parking lot. The red dot was still on Master’s face, and Riley stood silent, unmoving, ten feet away. Master finally spoke. “So what? Are you trying to impress me?”
“I just want to know if the first three I mentioned are the ones who let the contracts on the Witness Protection Program. I want to know if it stops with them or if it goes up through the U.S. Marshal’s program.”
Master laughed. “Shit, it might go all the way to the attorney general. Maybe the president.”
“But Getty, Jamieson, and Tucker for sure?” Riley asked, not letting Master distract him.
Master shrugged. “Yeah, those three for sure.”
“How’d you get your contracts? Who contacted you?” Riley asked.
“Usually Simon on the actual contract. Sometimes I talked to Getty. I only dealt with Jamieson once. Tucker was the money man.” Master tried to discern Riley’s face. “But what good does that information do you?”
“It keeps us from making a mistake,” Riley said quietly.
“I told you before and you didn’t listen, but you’d better listen now. Drop it.” Master pointed at Riley. “You still don’t understand, do you? After all the shit you’ve been through, you just don’t get it. This is our government you’re up against. There’s nothing you can do.”
Riley ignored him. “So what’s your excuse? Money?”
“I don’t need an excuse,” Master snapped. “Yeah, I don’t say it isn’t part of the reason, but those people are criminals. Seemed like I was doing society a favor.”
“What about all the innocents who got in the way?”
“Innocents didn’t get in the way, until we ran into the Cobbs.”
“How many were there before the Cobbs?” Riley asked.
Master didn’t answer.
“This fellow Getty has been in charge of the Witness Protection Program for six years. We haven’t been able to find out much else, but you have to figure that at least several hundred people a year go under in the Program. What percentage of those do Getty and his partners figure deserve to die? And does it just happen to be a happy by-product that they can keep the money allocated to support those people in their new lives? The federal budget for the Program was forty-three million last year alone. How much of that do they keep? How many people with a green status in the computer never got picked up by another section?”
“Listen,” Master said, “I just did a job, all right? You’ve done the same thing. You’ve been on missions where the objective was a pile of shit some politician pulled out of the air after twenty seconds of deep thought. Or your mission was denied after the fact because some bureaucrat wanted to cover his ass. That’s just the way it goes.”
“So that’s how you justify it?” Riley asked.
“It’s not justification,” Master said. “It’s reality.”
Riley nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. Well, guess what? You fucked up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did it ever occur to you that this whole operation with Getty and his people wasn’t sanctioned?”
For the first time Master was slightly disconcerted. “I work for the government on a contract basis. They contacted me—”
“I know you work by contract,” Riley cut in. “That’s how we found you. That’s also how you were able to use government facilities like the hospital at Bragg to get rid of bodies. You’re official,” Riley said, “but Getty isn’t. He’s acting on his own.”
“Bullshit,” Master spat.
“Tell me why it’s bullshit,” Riley said. “How do you know your Witness Protection Program assignments are sanctioned? What proof do you have? Hell, what proof do you have that any of your assignments are sanctioned?”
Riley didn’t wait for an answer. “There’s no paper trail because the people who give you your jobs can’t have one. And I can’t deny that you probably think you’re doing the right thing. The right people contact you—they work for a government agency. They have the money. And they have a job they can justify and you can believe might be sanctioned by the government. The only problem you have is that it isn’t.”
Riley watched Master’s face in the dim light. “Kind of changes everything, doesn’t it? In fact, Getty was receiving payment from the Torrentinos on top of the money he had for the upkeep of the Cobbs. Double-dipping. So, ultimately, you were working for the Torrentinos too. You really fucked up when you wasted Jill Fastone and then dumped her body in Chicago. You thought you were sending a message to the mob, but you were actually sending the wrong message to the person footing your bill.”
“I did what I was told,” Master protested. “If Getty was rogue, that wasn’t my fault.”
“Just following orders, eh?” Riley said sarcastically. “That’s a rather weak justification.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Master asked, the tone of his voice indicating to Riley that he was accepting the information. “I still work for other agencies that—”
“No, you don’t,” Riley cut in again. “A little bird is whispering information to all those people in the government you used to work for, and the bird is telling them about all of this. I think you’re out of a job.” Riley turned to walk away.
“You expect me to just let it go like that?” Master demanded. “I gave my life to this. My people died doing those bastards’ dirty work.”
“You have no choice but to let it go,” Riley said.
Master laughed, and the sound had a manic edge that caused Riley to turn back. “Now who’s the one who isn’t in reality?” Another odd laugh. “I know you exist and you know I exist. Sooner or later that’s going to cause one of us trouble. I don’t feel like waiting for that time.”
Master didn’t wait. He stepped forward with his left foot, then across with his right behind, and snapped a side kick with his left foot, aimed for Riley’s midsection, except Riley wasn’t there. He was moving back with the attack. Master expected that and continued with the forward flow by planting his left foot down and spinning, striking out with a back kick with his right foot.
Riley hopped to his left, let the kick fly by, then snapped his own turn kick directly into the left center of Master’s exposed chest. Master’s breath exploded out of his lungs and his ribs splintered under the impact of the toe of Riley’s left boot.
Riley lightly moved away on the balls of his feet as Master labored to regain his breath and overcome the blinding pain. Squinting in the dim light, he could see the dull gleam of the metal tips on Riley’s boots. “Not fucking fair,” he gasped.
“To quote someone,” Riley said, “ain’t it a bitch.”
Master bent down, hand snaking for his ankle, and Riley burst forward. As Master’s hand reached the ankle holster, Riley’s front kick caught him square in the jaw, breaking the bone and lifting the larger man off his feet, throwing him back onto the ground. Riley kicked down on the right hand, cracking the bone, and the small 22-caliber gun fell to the ground.
Riley instinctively stomped down on Master’s already wounded chest. He twitched, then died.
Riley took Master’s small pistol and his watch and wallet, then turned and swiftly walked away, linking up with Giannini as she came down the fire escape from the building where she’d provided cover. The telescoping stock on the long-barreled MP-5 was collapsed, and she hung it on a Velcro hook on the inside of her coat.
“Why did he do that? He should have just walked.”
“He knew he fucked up. If we could find him others could. Besides, he didn’t trust us. He gave i
t his best shot.”
“Jesus,” Giannini said. “This is too damn crazy.”
Riley couldn’t have agreed more. That had been his reaction when Colonel Pike told him the rumors he’d uncovered, through some of his underworld contacts, about Getty and the Witness Protection Program people. “Let’s call the colonel and tell him his information is correct.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
MARIETTA
11 NOVEMBER, 9:00 p.m.
“It’s a mess, but a solvable one,” Pike said. He was standing at a large bay window, looking out at the looming bulk of Kennesaw Mountain. “Like I told you yesterday, the best information I could uncover is that Getty and his folks were working for the Torrentinos and whoever else could foot the bill to kill someone entering the Program. That’s besides pocketing the expense money for those witnesses they were supposed to be supporting.”
“What are we going to do about it?” Riley asked. Giannini was drinking a cup of coffee on the other side of the room, having listened as Riley filled in Pike on what Master had said and the fatal results of the meeting the previous evening. Pike had been at his office the entire day, contacting people all over the country.
“We’re not going to do anything about it,” Pike said. “At least not directly. Let me explain the big picture here. Master worked for Getty, thinking Getty was authorized to order these missions. But Getty was actually working for himself and—in the case of the Cobbs—the Torrentinos.
“Charlie D’Angelo—the man you,” he nodded at Giannini, “said was in charge of the Torrentino gang on the outside—was working for himself. That explains two different sets of people after you. D’Angelo’s people are the ones who killed Tom Volpe and attacked you in the alley in Chicago. They’re also the ones,” he turned to Riley, “who got killed by Master’s men outside your apartment in Fayetteville.”
“D’Angelo was after the two million and didn’t know about the Torrentinos’ contract with Getty.”
