We met Milos at what was the biggest event in Belgrade that night—the Euroleague Championship basketball game between the Serbian club team, Partizan, and CSKA Moscow. The arena had an aroma I uniquely related to the Yugoslavian countries—a combination of a musty basement and enough cigarette smoke to cause lung damage. The people of the region have two great loves: basketball and cigarettes.
The place was jammed to capacity a good hour before the game was to begin, and the smoke hung like cumulus cloud cover. This didn’t stop the excitable fans from singing, chanting, and even tossing firecrackers on the court.
Milos was standing in the back row of the arena, looking like a typical American teenager. He wore a replica Lebron James basketball jersey and a pair of jeans. When we approached, Carter and Milos shook hands and made small talk—in English—like long-lost friends.
Milos’ baby-face made him appear to be around sixteen, which was saying something in Serbia, where most men had five o’clock shadow on their faces by noon. But Carter insisted he was twenty-five—older than I was when I was avoiding B-1 Bombers in Baghdad during the Gulf War. Carter’s sources and guides have an impeccable record, so I never questioned them.
We stood in the back of the arena watching the first half of the game. Paritzan led by ten at halftime and the crowd was worked into a lather. Then without warning, Milos was on the move. And I was pretty sure he wasn’t headed to the snack bar. We followed him out of the arena, and then along the Danube River, passing riverboats filled with young Serbs partying to what they affectionately call gypsy music. I guessed it was an acquired taste.
We arrived at a small Hyundai parked in a cobblestone alley. We piled in, and Milos drove a few miles through the crowded city. He parked in another cobblestone alley.
We got out of the car and started out on foot. We walked past the endless brick buildings of Old Belgrade and storefronts advertising in Cyrillic-Script writing. The night was pleasant with a temperature in the seventies, and an oversized moon lit the streets. We’d seen the Belgrade nights lit by bombs, so it was a welcome change.
We arrived at an alleyway where an identical Hyundai sat unoccupied. Once we were safely inside, Milos instructed us that our meeting with Zahir would take place outside of the small Serbian town of Vršac. I was familiar with the place. It was in the middle of nowhere and could only be reached by a treacherous journey. Kind of like a place where an international fugitive might choose to hide out.
The Hyundai drove along a desolate road with no lighting, except for the moon, and even less sign of life. Cell phone reception was nothing but a pipe-dream. A cold rain arrived out of nowhere and temperatures dropped dramatically. Milos explained that the fifty-mile journey would take us almost three hours, due to the conditions. We would have to wait for the tantalizing story.
While I was tired of “the life,” I was still energized by the anticipation of the big story. It reminded me of when Byron talked about the end of his football career, when he said he still loved the games, but it was all the hard work and practices that he no longer had the passion for.
Byron displayed his usual nervous energy. He tossed his cookies before most missions, but today he just nervously fiddled with his camera. Nothing ever seemed to bother the unflappable Carter. He sat comfortably in the front seat, wearing his usual denim uniform and wraparound sunglasses.
I sat calmly. I’ve often been described as having nerves of steel. But if people could see my insides churning during these moments, they might have a different take. I wore a shearling-lamb suede poncho for the elements, and a few days of stubble for the rugged look. J-News was going to go out in style.
I checked my watch, before casually looking up, expecting another monotonous view of the rugged Serbian countryside. When I did, my eyes bulged.
Carter had already seen it, and yelled, “Look out!”
The van driving innocently ahead of us suddenly skidded to a stop, blocking the road.
Four men in camouflage suits ran from the sliding door on the side of the van, carrying automatic weapons, and looking like they were willing to use them. But I knew right away that they weren’t military. I pegged their language as Arabic, not Yugoslavian. In any language, I knew we were in trouble.
It was all happening too fast. Milos tried to put the car in reverse, but he didn’t get far. A round of gunfire shot into the engine of the Hyundai and the radiator fizzed. Milos was hit in his upper chest and he bent over in agony.
The men dragged the four of us out of the vehicle and tossed us on the cold, wet ground. Carter tried to put up a fight, but one of the men took a gun handle to his head, knocking him out cold.
Blindfolds were tied around our heads and we were loaded into the back of the van.
I had stayed one story too long.
Chapter 11
Outer Banks, North Carolina
Fourth of July
Senator Craig Kingsbury sat in the back of the stretch limo, surrounded by his insufferable father, George Kingsbury, and his annoying press secretary, Joey Lynch. It was the fitting end to the week from hell.
The plan was to spend a long Fourth of July weekend at the Kingsbury’s vacation retreat in the Avon Village. They needed to regroup from the sudden return of Lamar Thompson into their lives.
At first, they tried to laugh off the accusations, but kept running into the same sticking point—they were true. Craig ran his last campaign on the slogan “character and honesty.” Right now, honesty was biting him in the ass.
Craig wasn’t concerned that the scandal would cost him the presidential election. It was still sixteen months away and he didn’t want to win, anyway. His biggest fear was his father pulling him out of the fire one more time and accumulating more debt. The debt paid to George Kingsbury came at a very high interest rate.
He was still on a payment plan for the “incident” at UNC, almost twenty years earlier. The senate seat he never wanted was the biggest punishment so far. The run for the White House was another. But it was still better than doing ten to fifteen in a state pen for vehicular homicide—he was too pretty for prison.
On television or a billboard, Craig appeared to be the ideal political candidate. Boyish good looks accentuated by sandy blond hair that flopped to the side. One prominent magazine billed him as the southern Bobby Kennedy. Craig just hoped the voters would determine he lacked the experience to hold the office of president, and cast their vote for his competitors.
Joey Lynch ended his call and jubilantly provided the latest polling numbers. Still ten points ahead of any other Democrat, even with the mini-scandal, and in a dead heat with the incumbent Republican president.
As usual, his father tempered the enthusiasm by shouting in his hard-of-hearing style, “A lot can happen in sixteen months!”
Craig sure hoped so, as the positive numbers were really starting to scare him.
George was a cranky man of seventy-three, who made no secret that he was living vicariously through his youngest son. The elder children either failed, or worse, turned out to be girls. A Kingsbury would hold the office of president if it killed him to get him there. Craig sighed, thinking of those obnoxious television commercials. No credit? Bad credit?
The story broke in a small high school newspaper in South Carolina. Lamar Thompson was being honored as the high school’s top athlete in school history. A sixteen-year-old sophomore reporter asked Lamar about the accident that changed his life. Lamar Thompson answered truthfully.
As far as Craig knew, Lamar had never previously uttered a word about the accident, at least not one that connected Craig to it. He figured that King George had threatened him to keep his mouth shut. Or maybe he just thought that nobody would ever believe him. So why did he suddenly decide to talk? Maybe the headlines of Craig joining the presidential campaign opened some old wounds, or perhaps Thompson saw it as a bargaining chip to shake them down for a nice payday. But if so, why not take the money when it was originally offered? What Craig did
know, was that his father was unraveling like never before, which meant it must be the worst-case scenario—Lamar Thompson had decided to talk because he no longer had anything left to lose. You can’t threaten a dead man.
The limo followed the police officer in the unmarked SUV down US-64 South—the stealth escort was one of the perks of the Kingsbury power. They were desperate to avoid the slobbering media that smelled the blood in the water, until they could come up with a solution to the Thompson problem. Sand dunes and quiet bodies of water surrounded the road. The only signs of civilization were the vacation homes on stilts that likely wouldn’t last through the next hurricane.
They rumbled up NC-12, and King George continued on his soapbox, “I always knew your bad choices would get in the way of our dream.”
“This is your dream, Daddy, not mine. It was never my dream!”
“You are such a child. Look at yourself, you pathetic little baby. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be rotting in jail.”
“And my brother would still be alive,” Joey piled on.
If Craig had any energy left, he would have reached out and physically wiped the smug look off Joey’s face. He had used the death of his brother, Brad Lynch, to extort a career from King George. Brad had been Craig’s only true friend involved in the accident—he barely knew Thompson or the freshman kid, who was just another in a long line of hangers-on who had surrounded him throughout his life.
George put up his hand to demand silence. He then made a statement as if he were trying to define hypocritical, “We must worry about going forward and not look back.”
Joey had notes. “Lamar Thompson lives not far from here in Kitty Hawk. No wife or kids … at least ones he knows about. Parents are deceased—a grandmother still lives in Columbia. He’ll often visit her when he’s sober enough or needs money. I say we take him out. Make it look like an OD—wouldn’t be much of a stretch.”
George smacked him in the head, causing Joey to grab his ears in pain. “Can you stop being stupid for a moment? You think the media is harsh now—watch if something happens to this Lamar fella. Any ideas, Craig?”
“What do you want me to say? You’re the one who tried to buy him off, not me.”
“Do I have to explain to you, son, that the payoff you turn your nose up at is what kept you out of jail?”
“I have been in jail for twenty years!”
“Smarten up, boy!” he shouted, before declaring, “Nothing is going to hold back my dreams, especially not some drug addict cullerd boy.”
Chapter 12
The SUV bounced along the empty beach road that was lit only by eerie moonlight. The Oregon Inlet Bridge appeared in the hazy distance.
The officer pulled to the side of the bridge, just as he had been instructed. Moments later, the Kingsbury limo came to a stop behind him.
The officer got out of his vehicle and calmly walked back to the limo. He knocked on the tinted back window and it rolled down.
He flashed the badge that identified him as Officer Kyle Jones of the Rockfield Police Department and announced, “Senator Craig Kingsbury, you are under arrest for the murder of Marilyn Lacey.”
Joey Lynch immediately voiced his displeasure, “Do you know who you’re talking to?” It was the same superior tone he took earlier at the airport while performing a thorough background check on Officer Ron Culver, which delayed their trip by fifteen minutes.
Jones shot one bullet into his head with a 9mm Glock. This got everyone’s attention.
“Who are you working for?” George Kingsbury demanded, while unceremoniously removing Joey’s dead body from his lap.
“George Kingsbury—you are under arrest for the cover-up of the murder of Marilyn Lacey.”
The front door of the limo opened and the driver took off, attempting to make an escape over a sand dune.
The officer was in Batman mode now—a trance-like state with pinpoint focus on his prey. He got him in his sights and put one bullet in the back of his head. He collapsed into the sand and lay still. He didn’t feel good about it. But this was war, and the driver was collateral damage.
The elder Kingsbury remained defiant. “That was twenty years ago! They were kids—they made a mistake!”
“There’s no statute of limitations on justice.”
“Please don’t shoot me,” Craig Kingsbury whimpered.
A grin pursed Batman’s thin lips. “I’m not going to shoot you, Senator Kingsbury.”
The Senator exhaled with relief. Batman knew it would be short-lived, but he first had to make sure that he fully understood his crimes.
“Did you know almost twenty thousand people died last year in drinking and driving accidents? But they weren’t accidents—they were murder, pure and simple. You are a murderer, and Judge Buford isn’t around to save you anymore.”
“What do you want … money? How much?” George remained indignant.
“It’s estimated that there will be over seven hundred traffic fatalities this holiday weekend. Half of those will be alcohol related. Did you try to solve this problem in your time in Washington, Senator—or were you more concerned with covering up your past?”
The officer pulled out a bottle of Everclear he stored in his holster. He unscrewed the cap, reached inside the limo, and began jiggling the bottle side-to-side, soaking Craig and George Kingsbury with the vodka.
“What do you want?” George demanded again.
“This is not about me. You killed with the weapons of alcohol and cars, and now you will become another example of how cars and alcohol never mix.”
He casually struck a match and flicked it into the backseat, setting the men on fire. They tried to scramble out of the vehicle, but he coolly shot out the door handles.
Batman watched as the two men tried to escape their burning flesh. They looked as if they were being attacked by a hive of invisible bees. The useless screams and smell of burning flesh was a sight the officer would never forget. Nor did he want to.
He flicked another match into the vehicle, and then another. Within moments, the entire limo was ablaze. It lit up the dark night like ten full moons.
The officer calmly returned to the SUV and left the scene. He drove the gravel-filled beach road, passing villages from Rodante to Buxton. He stopped in Frisco at a convenience store, where he bought a candy bar and a bottle of water.
As he drove toward Hatteras Village, Batman slowly morphed back into Officer Kyle Jones. He left the stolen SUV in the parking lot of the Hatteras Ferry, exchanging it for his red pickup truck, which he drove onto the ferry.
The ferry took him to Ocracoke Island. Upon reaching the island, he made the familiar drive. He passed the marina, noticing the mixture of locals and tourists that had gathered for the Fourth of July festivities. He could see the landmark lighthouse in the distance, feeling as if it were guiding him home like the North Star.
He turned onto his street, and took special notice of the house formally owned by the Not-so-honorable Raymond Buford. He saluted it, thanking Buford for leading him to the information that exposed the evils of the Kingsburys. Buford also introduced him to the identity of Ron Culver, and the messy secret that proved quite valuable in tonight’s mission.
He continued down the street until he arrived at his beach house. He parked the pickup truck under the covering and climbed the stairs. Home sweet home.
Chapter 13
The house was one floor, three bedrooms, two baths and a large open area that extended from kitchen to living room. Simple and neat—just the way he liked it. A sliding glass door led to a raised sundeck with a view of the Atlantic Ocean.
He opened a window and inhaled the salt air. Then took a moment to listen to the sounds of pounding waves in the distance and the booms of amateur fireworks shows. But now was no time to become complacent—there was much work to be done.
First, he changed out of Culver’s police uniform. He slipped into a pair of denim shorts and a Rockfield PD T-shirt.
His
forehead broke out with beads of sweat, and his stomach felt as if it were being strangled by nerves. This moment was always so overwhelming, yet so satisfying. He grabbed a magic marker and entered the closet of the master bedroom. As he did, he felt the weight of every life that had been taken, and those who were left behind. It was a burden he was honored to carry on his broad shoulders.
He separated a wall of hanging shirts and removed a piece of wood paneling from the back of the closet, exposing a door handle. He then maneuvered the numbers of the combination lock. The numbers were significant.
He entered an 8 x 8 windowless room that was encapsulated in a steel structure. The door was fourteen-gauge steel mounted in a steel frame and secured by three dead bolts. It swung inward.
The contractor had guaranteed him the room would provide protection from 250mph winds and projectiles traveling at 100mph. Safe rooms were common in beach houses to reduce loss of life and injury during a major storm. His use of the room focused on loss of life, but had very little to do with storm safety.
He walked to the wall that displayed the pictures of Craig and George Kingsbury. He methodically drew an X over them with the magic marker. He felt sparks shoot through his body, and he tried to make the pleasure last as long as possible. When he finished, he took a step back, feeling dizzy, and a rare smile leaked from his lips. Another mission completed successfully.
He didn’t savor it for long—his attention diverted to the photos still awaiting an X. His mood turned melancholy—realizing the job would never be finished. He had so much still to do, and time was rapidly slipping away. He was overcome by emotion, and tears began to trickle down his face.
(2012) Officer Jones Page 4
