Kazak Guardians: Book III: Megan (Kazak Guardians Series 3)

by C. R. Daems

  "Oh, was he one of the FBI agents in the shootout?" I asked, remembering a news report about an incident were a FBI agent shot a child during a shootout at a mall in Minnesota."

  "The FBI had a report of three men on the FBI's most wanted list being spotted at the Mall of America. They sent several teams of special agents to cover the entrances and exits. When the teams were in place, they sent in six agents to see if they could locate them, with orders not to engage—find and report. It's unclear whether the fugitives spotted the agents or whether security guards at the mall attempted to apprehend them. In any case, the men drew weapons and began shooting. The FBI felt they had to respond since bystanders were being shot in the panic that resulted. When it was all over, six individuals were killed, including two of the fugitives and one agent, and ten were wounded, including one fugitive and two agents. The subsequent investigation found that the fugitives were responsible for three of the deaths and six of the wounded and the FBI for four deaths and four of the wounded. Neely’s gun was found to have caused the fatal shot to the child."

  "Did he kill any of the fugitives?" It must have been chaos but…

  "Yes, he killed one and wounded another. The subsequent inquiry cleared him of negligence and no criminal charges were filed."

  "Civil suits?" I asked, thinking the wounded, the relatives of those killed, and countless others for trauma and injuries from the resulting stampede must have been file law suits.

  "That's the problem. The father of the child is a billionaire and isn't suing. Money would mean little to him. The FBI suspects he wants Neely killed and has the money to make it happen."

  "Okay, professional Assassins, but why me?" I felt excited and pleased, but I would have thought Lynn or another senior Kazak since the assignment would most likely involve professionals.

  "Normally, I would have picked a master Kazak." He gave a snort. "Of course, Lynn's out. She has the first five slots on the FBI's shit list, and they aren't overly fond of admitting they need a Kazak. They would always prefer to handle his security themselves, but this time they know professional Assassins will be involved. If the Assassin succeeds it would set a bad precedent. The decision tipped in your direction when the director of the CIA recommended you. How do you feel about the assignment?"

  "The CIA recommending me is going to ruin my image and look bad on my board, but it sounds interesting." I chewed my lip like I was thinking about the assignment. But the thought of facing an Assassin was exciting—and damn dangerous I cautioned my overactive imagination.

  "The Committee approved your selection. You, Lynn, and Jody are their lab animals. Maybe they want to see if you aggravate the FBI as much as Lynn does…or to see if women do better with Assassins or..." Witton shrugged.

  "All right, Mr. Witton. Now that you have me as excited as a girl on her first date, where do I find Neely?"

  Witton shook his head. "Clare is right. The Hill gets rid of all the sane ones. He and his supervisor are expecting you tomorrow at their field headquarters in Saint Paul. You're booked on a Delta flight out of Dulles later this afternoon. Ann Marie has your plane and hotel reservations and all the details.

  * * *

  The flight from Dulles to St. Paul was only three hours, and I caught a taxi to the Radisson Hotel on Kellogg Boulevard, which turned out to be within easy walking distance of the FBI office. Good since I don't do driving—too much work figuring out where you're going, parking, gas…

  The next morning I made my way to the high rise office building that the FBI used, found the floor they occupied, and was directed to Supervisor Markham's secretary.

  "I imagine you're the Kazak Megan," a tall redhead said as I approached her desk. "Supervisor Markham is waiting for you in his conference room. She pointed to a glassed-in room several offices down the hall, which had four men sitting around a conference table.

  "Thank you." I nodded and headed for the room, noting the cubicles lining the middle of the room. I smiled as everyone appeared to be watching my progress. When I reached the conference room a silver-haired man waved me in.

  "Welcome, Kazak Megan, I'm Supervisor Markham and these are Senior Agents Burton, Dugas, and Neely. Grab something to drink." No one said anything while I fetched a cup of coffee and sat in the chair Markham indicated. He sat at the head of the conference table, while the other three sat opposite from me.

  "So, what would you like to know?" I said, somewhat amused by the arrangement. They weren't sure what category of dog I represented: terrier, sporting, hound, working, or non-sporting.

  "Yes." Markham smiled. "We have never worked with a Kazak before and need to understand what to expect. We've all heard rumors, but even when they aren't second or third hearsay, they are usually distorted by the teller's perception and experience."

  "The FBI and the Kazaks work very differently. Why? Because you and we are subject to different conditions and rules. You do your best not to aggravate your client because they are very important people and can cause you grief, your rules of engagement are limited, you must take into account the safety of bystanders, and you are subjected to review by the courts and the public. I, on the other hand, have no problem telling my client what he or she can't do. I have combat rules of engagement, I'm not subject to review by the courts or the public, and my only concern is my client. Consequently, I'm ruthless and myopic.

  "Myopic?" Burton asked.

  "My total focus is on saving my client—no one else." I smiled at the look on their faces. "I'm not saying I'm not happy if my actions saves other lives, but my actions are always directed only toward saving my client."

  "That sounds heartless," Markham said, frowning in thought.

  "What if you were guarding the President of the United States?"

  "In that case—"

  "A Kazak sees his or her client as the equivalent of the President of the United States."

  "I've heard you have rules," Neely said, his face ridged with concern.

  "The FBI, Secret Service, CIA, etc., all have rules. Kazak rules tend to be invasive because the potential threat is higher because it potentially involves professional Assassins who have special talents. In general, if my client turns his head he will see me."

  "What if that is unacceptable?" Neely asked.

  "Then you don't consider the threat serious and don't need a Kazak, and I can leave."

  "I can certainly see how the stories about working with Kazaks can run the gambit. It would be difficult to work with a Kazak since our rules and expectations aren't the same," Markham said while slowly nodding understanding.

  "It's easy if we consider that we are each providing a different level of security necessary for the total safety of the client."

  Markham laughed. "I understand why the other government agencies and the Kazaks have problems working together. We don't see the world the same way." He pursed his lips in thought. "All right. The FBI will do their job, the Kazak her job, and we'll hope together we are better than the Assassins. Neely, we'll leave you with Megan to get acquainted…or maybe adjusted." Markham gave a wry smile and left with the other two agents, who stood and talked outside the room for several minutes before leaving one.

  "Well, Megan, what now?"

  "Ignore me," I said and had to smile. "Do whatever you normally do. So long as I can stay close to you and you don't put yourself in danger, I won't interfere."

  He laughed. "They put me back on normal duty, and I'm a Special Agent so I'm likely to be in danger in the normal course of doing my duty…and so will you."

  He was right and it presented a unique situation. Was I here to protect him from getting killed or from getting killed for revenge for killing that child? Would I stop him from overdosing on drugs, or suicide, or reckless behavior? No, I decided. My job was to prevent someone from killing him for revenge.

  "Agreed. I'm not here to prevent you from dying." I grinned. "Only from being killed by an assassin, professional or otherwise."

  Neely laugh
ed. "Good. I'm off to work," he said, but stood looking at me.

  "Ignore me." I smiled, amused as he digested my remark, then shrugged and left the conference room, with me following. As we negotiated the maze of cubicles, all eyes followed us. Finally, he entered one. I moved to one corner and stood. Ironically, the partitions were short enough that I could see over them and watch people moving throughout the entire open area. The novelty soon wore off and people began to ignore me—like a cigar store Indian.

  "Do you eat, Megan?" Neely asked, shutting down his desktop computer.

  "When you do," I said. He nodded and walked to Agent Dugas’s cubicle and the two proceeded to the building cafeteria. In the line, I grabbed a sandwich and milk.

  "Over there." I pointed to a free table near a wall. Neely shrugged and headed for the table. I noticed Dugas talking with Neely as we walked and sat with him to eat.

  "Don't you sit?" Dugas asked. When I shook my head. "He's safe here."

  "That's good," I said with some amusement at the idea that a professional Assassin would consider a cafeteria off limits. They both shrugged and continued their discussion of some case they were working on.

  Neely spent the rest of the day in his cubicle or talking with other agents. Around six he turned off his computer and rose.

  "Time to quit. I followed Neely, along with Agent Burton, to the parking area where Neely had a white Lexus sedan and Burton a black Tahoe. It was a short drive to his condo. Neely had a unit on the third floor. His building had no elevator and each floor had only two units, which was good from a security perspective—fewer people coming as he was on the top floor. When we entered the apartment, Burton stayed out in the hallway where he had a chair. Inside the unit was small, less than eight hundred square feet, one bedroom with the kitchen at one end, and an open area which separated the bedroom and bathroom at the other end.

  "It's small but all I need since I don't spend a lot of time here. You can sleep on the couch…" he said, leaving the sentence hanging for me to comment.

  "I'll sleep in your leather chair so I can see the door."

  "I eat out mostly. There are several small restaurants close by. I don't do much cooking, microwave stuff when I do."

  "That's fine with me. Would you prefer Mr. Ted or Agent Neely?" I asked.

  "Ted will do since we are sharing an apartment," he grinned. "What about my personal life, as limited as it is?"

  "Remember my myopic comment. I don't care about your sexual preferences, drug usage, sources of income. I only care about protecting you and activities that expose you to being…assassinated." I hadn't thought about it before but I wasn't assigned to stop him doing stupid things that could get him killed—as funny as it sounded—only to stop the threat against him. "Everything else is someone else's business. You actually have client-lawyer privilege with me."

  He laughed. "Very interesting. As an agent I would be bound to notice and report those other things." He sobered. "I can understand Mr. Van Witt hating me. I not only killed his six-year-old daughter but did it in front of her mother. They were twenty yards away…I didn't even see them…they were hidden by the fugitives…and they were killing randomly…" He stood looking out the window, crying.

  * * *

  Over the next week, I learned about the life of Special Agent Neely, which was mostly research on several wanted men and a women thought to be in the area—credit cards, known associates and hangouts, previous police records, FBI profiles, etc.—and attending update briefings. Since nothing had happened, the FBI considered the threat had diminished. To me, the threat had escalated since the Assassin had more time to prepare. The problem, where? His condo, the FBI offices, the office building, someplace he frequented regularly, or… It would be nice if I could figure out where since it would mean I'd have an edge. My money was on someplace he visited regularly, but that only included going to and from work and those times were somewhat random.

  "Time for work, Megan," Neely said as he grabbed his coat from the closet. I opened the door and checked the hallway. Agent Burton was sitting half asleep. I waved to Neely to go and preceded him and Burton to the stairs. I felt as jumpy as a dog in a house full of cats. The lobby was empty except for the mailman sorting envelopes. I waved to Burton to check the door before letting Neely pass me. As he did, I swept through his legs as I spun down, drawing my Glock and shooting the mailman twice. I first shot hit him in the chest as he was pulling what looked like a Russian SR-3 Vikhr out of his mailbag. The second hit him in the head, spinning him back into the stairway just a lady appeared on the landing. She screamed and screamed. Neely was now rising to one knee, weapon in hand.

  "Why?" he shouted and then seeing the assault rifle half out of the mailbag. "How?"

  "Mailmen don't deliver mail at seven thirty in the morning," I said, while surveying the area to make sure he didn't have a backup.

  "You could have stopped him without killing him. What if someone else was in the foyer?"

  "There wasn't and you are making all sorts of after-the-fact judgments," I said while continuing to survey the area, surprised there was no second shooter. "I guess you have to call the police?"

  "Of course. You just killed a man."

  "Doesn't matter. They can't arrest, detain, or question me without my permission. I have the equivalent of diplomatic immunity."

  Neely did call the police and his supervisor. I would have preferred to leave in case more Assassins were in the area. The police arrived within ten minutes and a police lieutenant shortly afterward.

  "Agent Neely and Mrs. Morgan agree you shot the mailman. Do you have anything to say?" The lieutenant, a middle-aged man with thinning hair asked, reaching for his handcuffs.

  "Yes, I'm a Kazak and can't be questioned or arrested. Special Agent Neely will confirm that. You had better call your captain before you do something illegal."

  "You killed a man. I'm taking you in for questioning." His face was now twisted into a snarl.

  "It doesn't matter, Lieutenant, who I killed or why. You should call your captain," I said as he reach for my wrist to put on the handcuffs. Two other officers were watching. One appeared amused and one was sneering at me. Both had their hands on their weapons. As the Lieutenant reached for me, my Glock rammed into his solar plexus. As he bent in pain I swept through his legs while pointing my weapon at the two officers. "Agent Neely, would you please collect those officers’ weapons before one of them attempts to be a hero and I have to kill him."

  Neely stood shocked for several seconds, then drew his gun and collected theirs. I opened my cell and punched one with my free hand. Witton answered.

  "What?"

  "I shot an Assassin, and I have a lieutenant refusing to call his captain and wanting to arrest me. If I have to shoot them it will cause a lot of paper—" I stopped when the phone went dead. I actually felt sorry for Witton but I didn't cause the problem.

  "What did he say?" Neely asked, now clearly nervous.

  "Nothing. He'll call someone who will call someone and these officers will be told what I told them ten minutes ago, and you can go back to work." Sure enough, several minutes later the officer's phones rang and after a lot of Yes, sirs, the senior officer spoke.

  "That was Captain Brock. He told us you are free to go, but he would like to talk to you if you could wait a moment."

  I shrugged. "I don't mind, unless you're in a hurry to get to the office, Agent Neely. You can give the officers their weapons back now that the situation has been clarified."

  "I've seen it, but I don't believe it," Neely mumbled as he handed the officers their weapons.

  "Combat rules of engagement and battlefield immunity. Don't worry, a committee will review my actions but not while I'm guarding a client." Captain Brock appeared as we were talking.

  "Kazak Megan, I'm sorry for the breach of protocol. We don't see Kazaks here very often so my people are unfamiliar with what they can and can't do. May I see your ID?" he said, nodding to my arm. I rolled u
p my sleeve. He stared at it for a minute then dialed a number and handed the phone to me. I typed in my password and handed it back to him. He nodded. Now if you don't mind, would you tell me what happened?"

  "Agent Neely has FBI and Kazak security because…" I went on to explain the reason and the incident this morning.

  "That was quick thinking…and a gutsy call. Judging by the weapon he had, it was a good call."

  By the time I finished Markham had arrived, along with a couple of other agents who looked to be taking control of the investigation. Neely gave him a synopsis of what had happened before Markham approached me.

  "Obviously, it would have been better if you could have captured him," he said, while reevaluating me.

  "True. But that assumes I knew facts then that I appear to know now." I smiled.

  "What do you mean, appear to know now?

  "How do we know for certain he didn't have backup or there weren't other shooters."

  "In other words, you wouldn't have acted differently."

  "Myopic and paranoid, sir," I said with a wry grin.

  "Lucky for Neely…and Burton." He walked over to look at the gun the Assassin had been carrying.

  * * *

  People were back to staring at me. The story, probably embellished, had spread like a wildfire on a windy day. Later that day Dugas came to Neely's cubicle.

  "It appears Mr. Van Witt really does intend to have his revenge," Dugas said, leaning against the opening. "Markham has a team of agents working to see if he left a money trail that can be traced to the shooter. We know the gunman doesn't have a record, but he has known ties to criminal organizations."

  "I'd imagine Van Witt is many layers removed from the transaction," Neely said, sighing in resignation. "And isn't going to give up because his first attempt didn't work." He gave a divisive laugh, and looked to me. "And the shooter isn't going to implicate him."

  "Myopic," I said. "The FBI thinks in terms of interrogation, trials, associates, and after-action reviews. Kazaks think in terms of their clients’ lives."