by Eric Bernt
Quentin, the front desk clerk, appeared in the doorway. He was pushing Lawrence Walters, who sat in a wheelchair, looking very confused. “Is this my room?”
CHAPTER 93
LAWRENCE WALTER’S ROOM
KELMAN NURSING AND REHAB CENTER
June 2, 11:05 a.m.
Quentin picked up Mr. Elliott’s Ruger from the floor and looked at Hogan. The two men had clearly developed a relationship through Hogan’s regular visits over the years. “This wouldn’t be yours, would it?”
“I believe it’s yours.” He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and wiped some of the blood off his face.
The clerk pocketed the weapon, then looked around the room at all the damage, shaking his head. It looked like the place had been hit by a tornado. “Just who in the hell do you expect is gonna clean all this up? Not me, I hope.”
“I’ll pay you a week’s salary.”
“Two weeks. Plus damages.”
Hogan nodded his consent.
Bewildered, Lawrence looked up at Quentin. “What in God’s name happened here?”
“Ask the man standing over there.” He pointed to Hogan.
“Who is he?”
“He’s an old friend of yours named Hogan. He’s visited you every few months since you got here.”
The old man studied Hogan. “I remember knowing a Hogan once, a long time ago. I believe we worked together. Is that you?”
Hogan nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Did you owe me something? I can’t remember.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Hogan said. “I’m settling accounts with you.”
The old man only now noticed Mr. Elliott lying unconscious on the floor. “Who is that man and why is he bleeding all over my floor?”
“He was here to do you harm. I wasn’t going to let that happen.”
“He ain’t dead, is he?” the clerk asked.
“Not yet.”
The clerk smiled, as did Lawrence. “I liked you, didn’t I?”
“I believe so, yes, sir.”
Lawrence turned his gaze toward Mr. Elliott and pointed his shaking hand. “Get that piece of shit out of here.”
A few minutes later, Hogan used Lawrence’s wheelchair to remove Mr. Elliott from the premises. His hands and wrists were now zip-tied together tightly. Hogan was taking no chances. He placed Mr. Elliott in the back of the assassin’s rented Ford Fusion and then opened the trunk. Hogan was appalled by the breadth of weaponry it contained. The torture devices included specific apparatus that had been used in the gruesome snuff films that featured his former colleagues, Kindra and Lyle.
What was done to them was horrible. And inhumane. The images that were streamed from Mr. Elliott’s dark-web site had haunted Hogan for years. And because of it, he had vowed that no matter what it took, or how long he had to wait, one day he would kill the man who had perpetrated the deeds.
At times he had considered going abroad himself and hunting the man down before age began to diminish Hogan’s talents. After all, this type of mission was among his specialties. But the risks involved were difficult for him to justify, given his family obligations. He had allowed himself a window of two more years. If an opportunity didn’t come up during that time, he had committed to making the trip.
Hogan realized his wait was over the moment Caitlin decided to proceed with the Alpha Reset Protocol. He was certain that Bob Stenson would go after any vulnerability that she had, and the most obvious one was Lawrence. As the unofficial godfather of most currently working assassins in the United States, Hogan had maintained contact with most of them over the years, providing training or advice whenever requested. So it was easy for him to reach out to the teams before Bob Stenson could. Hogan told them to decline Stenson’s offer, or simply not to answer. Each complied. Which left the American Heritage Foundation director only one choice: Mr. Elliott.
Hogan was a man who had spent a lifetime cultivating methods to moderate his emotions. Never get too high; never get too low. Just get the job done and move on. Especially when it came to killing. Any emotion distorted the deed. “Kill without joy” was his professional mantra, because he had seen too many in his profession become obsessed with the rush. They got addicted to it. He was certain this was what had happened to Mr. Elliott, only in the extreme. Like those who try heroin or oxy or fentanyl for the first time—once you experience it, you cannot unexperience it. And with some things, once is all it takes. They grab hold of you and gradually begin to consume you. Ask any real alcoholic.
Hogan suddenly realized that his intention was to torture Mr. Elliott with the same horrible instruments the man had used on Kindra and Lyle. He wanted the sick bastard to scream like they had. To beg like they had. And to suffer like they had. He was going to settle the score Old Testament style. An eye for an eye. Then an ear for an ear, before moving to his hands and other body parts. Hogan intended to keep Mr. Elliott alive for as long as inhumanely possible.
And that was when it hit him. He had lost it. He wanted to inflict as much suffering as possible and enjoy it. Enjoy it! The revelation made him shudder. This was how easy it was to go over the edge. If you can justify this, there is nothing you won’t be able to. Hogan knew he had nearly gone down a road there would be no returning from. And that everything he was devoted to in his life would have been placed in jeopardy.
He did not hesitate. He slammed the trunk shut and opened the door to the back seat, where he placed his weapon against Mr. Elliott’s chest and fired. The sound of the gunshot was muffled. The human torso makes an excellent silencer when a weapon is fired directly against it. So, it turned out, does the human skull. Because when Hogan fired a second bullet into Mr. Elliott’s forehead, it was similarly muted.
Hogan did not relish the moment or revel in any retribution. He was back in control. The job was done and that was that. He returned the wheelchair to Quentin and thanked him again for his assistance. Then he drove off in Mr. Elliott’s rental car, which he abandoned only a few blocks away, but not before sending a group text to his contacts within the CIA, DIA, Homeland, and the FBI. It read: First come, first served. It included an image of Mr. Elliott’s fingerprint after it had been pressed against one of the rental-car windows, and the GPS coordinates of the vehicle. He wondered how long it would take for the news to reach Bob Stenson.
As it would turn out, not long at all.
CHAPTER 94
ELECTRONIC VOTING SYSTEMS
PHOENIX, ARIZONA
June 2, 9:31 a.m. Mountain Standard Time
Jessup Fields and his brother stood in front of the world headquarters of EVS as they addressed a dozen reporters and their cameras. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press and good people of this country, my brother and I just learned of a hostile and brazen attack committed by a nefarious group of Russian hackers—not only on our voting-machine business, but on the very sanctity of our American way of life . . .”
Flying in their G6 somewhere in the clouds above New York State, Corbin Davis and his wife and chief of staff were watching the live newscast in disbelief. Jessup Fields continued: “These foreign hackers went so far as to splice together random pieces of conversation from our great president to make it appear as if he were somehow involved in their nefarious scheme. Well, I am here to tell you that this is all fabrication. Pure and simple fabrication.”
Corbin Davis turned to Bob Welker. “What the hell do you make of this?”
“The president had him go on the offensive,” responded Welker. “Get the fake news out there first, and that’s what the people will believe. When the real news comes out, it will seem bogus.”
“The spin has always been what matters, not the story,” Melanie concurred.
“It’s a sad commentary, don’t you think?” asked Davis.
“It’s the world we live in,” responded his chief of staff, looking out the window at the farm fields twenty-three thousand feet below them.
“God, I hope you can make things bett
er,” Melanie said to Corbin.
“It’s why you married me, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER 95
AMERICAN HERITAGE FOUNDATION
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
June 2, 11:34 a.m.
Bob Stenson watched two separate screens. On one was the breaking news about Russian hacking of Electronic Voting Systems. On the other was a satellite view of the Pagan motorcycle gang circling around the Maryland facility where Edward Parks had been located. Stenson heard footsteps walking quickly down the hallway toward his door. It was Greers, who was panicked. “Sir, have you been watching the news?”
“No, I thought I’d catch up on the last few episodes of The Bachelor that I missed.” He paused. “My goodness, boy, will you kindly relax?”
“What are we going to do, sir? How can we possibly use the echoes from the Oval Office now?”
“I’m already having Mr. Harwood pore over every date since he’s been in office. It won’t take long to find something we can use.”
Momentarily appeased, Greers then pointed to the satellite view of David’s Place on-screen. “But what about the Pagans?”
“I’ve got to admit, using them was rather clever. I’ve watched at least five of them head off in different directions, and for the life of me, I couldn’t tell you if Parks was on the back of one.”
Greers remained rattled. “And I assume you’ve heard that Mr. Elliott was found dead in his car less than twenty miles from here.”
Stenson clenched his jaw. “Excuse me?”
“Mr. Elliott. The operative who supposedly doesn’t work inside US borders. Apparently, he does.”
“I know who Mr. Elliott is,” the older man replied carefully. “Who found him?”
“Every agency with initials,” Greers answered anxiously. “Whoever took him out made sure they all knew exactly where to find him.” He then asked the question that was really on his mind. “Sir, what do you think he was doing in Alexandria?”
“I doubt it was to admire the view from the Masonic Memorial.”
“Yes, I doubt that also.” He was clearly in no mood for joking around.
Stenson wanted to hear what his subordinate was thinking before he offered up any details. “What do you think he was doing here?”
Greers answered like it should have been obvious. “I think Caitlin hired him.”
This took Stenson by surprise. “To come after me?”
“Not just you, sir. He may have been hired to come after all of us.”
Stenson rubbed his chin, thinking about the irony that in fact he had hired Mr. Elliott, and not Caitlin. At least now it was clear why Greers was acting so emotionally. He had the access codes to Mr. Elliott’s dark-web site and had seen too many of his “promotional films.”
“It would’ve been a hell of a move on her part, don’t you think?” Stenson said.
Greers remained gravely concerned. “No, sir, I don’t. It would mean she’s gone off the rails, and that anything is now possible.”
Stenson stopped rubbing his chin. “Why do you say that?”
“There’s a reason we have never once hired him. The man is a psychopath. It’s like making a deal with the Devil. Anyone willing to go that far is unstable. They are capable of absolutely anything.”
Stenson struggled not to take the statement personally. “Not if the Devil is now dead.”
Greers paused, still anxious. “That’s the other thing that concerns me. If one of ours had put him down, you would have been the first to know. If we didn’t do it, who did?”
“The entire law-abiding world was hunting the man. If he was dumb enough to set foot inside US borders, he was clearly dumb enough to get caught.”
Greers shook his head. “Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence. You know that.”
“Neither do I. Because you taught me not to.”
Stenson nodded. “I’ll reach out to the agencies and see what they know. When I find out who put him down, I will let you know.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“In the meantime, relax. You seem rattled. What you need to do is find Edward Parks and his goddamn device. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir, I’m on it.” Greers collected himself and exited even more quickly than he had entered.
After making sure his subordinate had gone down the hall, Stenson shook his head in frustration. Two and a half million dollars had just gone down the drain. There was no way he would ever get back his down payment to Mr. Elliott. Such were the risks in hiring psychopathic international killers.
As if to Hogan, he said, “Well, you son of a bitch, you may be good, but you can’t be in two places at once.” He picked up his phone and dialed the number of another phone currently located in Harvey, North Dakota.
CHAPTER 96
“MONTGOMERY” FAMILY HOME
HARVEY, NORTH DAKOTA
June 2, 10:38 a.m. Central Daylight Time
Peter, Marissa, and Mikey were sitting around the vintage kitchen table, playing a game of Scrabble. It was one of several board games Peter had discovered in a closet after they’d returned from breakfast. Peter played the word corpus. “Corpus. With the c on a triple letter, that’s sixteen points. Read ’em and weep.” He added sixteen to his score.
“Corpus? Is that even a word?” Marissa asked.
“Of course it is.”
“Oh yeah? What does it mean?”
Mikey jumped in. “Boy, are you dumb. Corpus means a core of pus. Corpus. Get it?” He cracked himself up.
His sister rolled her eyes. “That is so not funny.”
“Yes, it is. You just don’t get it ’cause you don’t have a sense of humor.”
Marissa turned to Peter. “Dad, I’m serious. What does it mean?”
“It means the main part of something. In accounting, it’s what you start with, or the principal of a fund, which is separate from the income or interest it earns.”
“Exactly,” chimed in Mikey. “It’s the core of something. But usually, it’s pus.” He laughed even louder, particularly when his father chuckled as well.
Marissa shook her head, rolling her eyes again. “I can’t believe you’re encouraging him.”
Mikey reached into the canvas tile bag to select three letters, but he apparently didn’t like his selections, so he quickly put them back and picked out three others.
“You are such a little cheater,” his sister commented.
“I am not,” Mikey answered.
“Are too. I saw what you did. Don’t try to deny it.”
“What is it that you think he did?” asked Peter.
“He repicked his letters.”
“Well, Mikey, is that true?” asked Peter.
With awkward hesitation, his son answered, “No.”
“Mikey—”
“I’m getting killed anyway. What does it even matter?”
“It’s the principle of the thing.” Peter crossed his arms across his chest in a father-knows-best pose.
“She always wins. It isn’t fair.”
“I’m older than you,” said Marissa. “I’m supposed to win.”
“You may be older, but I’m smarter.”
“Are not.”
“Are too.”
“Wanna bet?”
A voice they had never heard before then joined their conversation. “I’ll put my money on the little guy.” It was Coogan, the man who’d been watching them from the moment they had landed at Minot International Airport. He was standing just inside the front doorway, looking down the barrel of his Smith & Wesson.
Marissa screamed. Peter immediately stood up from the table, moving in front of his children as he addressed the intruder. “What the hell do you want?”
Coogan eyed Marissa menacingly. “Ain’t about what I want.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“You do what I say, ain’t no one gotta get hurt, and this’ll be over real quick. But y
ou and your wife don’t do what you’re told, well, it’ll be another story.”
“My wife isn’t here. I have no idea where she is.”
“That’s the miracle of technology. It don’t matter where she is. We’re gonna have us a little conference call just the same.”
Peter glanced at his satellite phone and desperately wished he hadn’t left it in plain view.
Coogan held up a dozen large zip ties, which he tossed onto the Scrabble board, scattering the tiles. He addressed Marissa. “Girly, you know what these are?”
She nodded, completely terrified. “Daddy, I’m scared.”
Peter tried to sound as reassuring as he could. “Just do what he says.”
“Use them ties to fasten your old man’s wrists and ankles to the legs of his chair. Then do the same for your brother there. If you try to get cute and tie them too loose, I’ll make them so tight they’ll have to amputate their hands and feet. You wouldn’t want that now, would you?”
She shook her head as tears streamed down her face.
“Well, get to it, then.”
She picked up one of the zip ties and moved to her father, who pushed his chair away from the table so that Coogan could see what Marissa was doing. “Daddy, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, honey. Make them tight like the man wants.” He paused to lock eyes with her. “We’re going to get through this.”
She nodded, wiping the tears from her cheeks as she tied his legs to the chair.
CHAPTER 97
TRAILER PARK
JARRETTSVILLE, MARYLAND
June 2, 11:45 a.m.
Speeding along in the rusted Bronco, Butler pulled up quickly to the entrance of a dilapidated trailer park, where he paused uneasily. “You sure this is the right place?”
Skylar held up the phone, which showed their location on a map. “They’re the coordinates she sent. Why, what’s the matter?”
He motioned outside the windows, where they were being surrounded by Pagan gang members, who clearly didn’t care for outsiders entering their compound. “Because if this is the wrong place, we’re in deep shit.”
