The Consultant

by TJ O'Connor

  Artie cocked his head. “You still CIA?”

  I grinned. “I’m a consultant with the State Department helping rebuild faraway nations and win the hearts and minds of their peoples.”

  “Of course you are.” He got serious. “I’ll check with our agency liaison. Just to be sure. I didn’t know Kevin had a brother. What happened between you two?”

  I lost my voice. The question punched my gut with brute force. It took me a few moments to fight the bile back. When I did, I stood up and walked across the room. “Heck if I know, Artie. I was headed to Winchester and pinged Kevin’s phone. I had no idea where he lived.”

  “You didn’t call?”

  “No, but he was expecting me. He just didn’t know when.” I waited for Artie to roll his eyes again. “Anyway, all hell broke loose when I got there.”

  “Nothing out of the norm.”

  He hit a nerve. “Except Kevin’s dead.”

  The words sent lightning through the air.

  “Sorry.” Artie lowered his eyes. “I didn’t mean it that way. Tell me about the break-in at Noor Mallory’s place.”

  It took me a few minutes to repeat the events just as I had for the deputies yesterday.

  Artie took it all in. “Any ideas?”

  “He searched her place, but mostly Kevin’s den. Don’t know what or if he found anything. Artie, the guy was Russian.”

  “Russian? How do you know that?”

  “Otyebis.” I translated next.

  He frowned. “We’ve got deputies on Noor’s place for a while. She’ll be safe. What was he looking for?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think he found it. He sat there like he was waiting for someone. He made a cell phone call, but she couldn’t hear it. Then I showed.”

  “That’s it?”

  I nodded. “He almost cut my head off.”

  “That I understand.”

  “Funny.”

  “Noor has no idea what it was about?”

  “None.”

  He changed the subject. “What about the café last night?”

  “What about it?”

  “Kruppa’s our witness.”

  “And?”

  “What about Fariq and Azar? They’re the two you beat up. What did they want with you?”

  I shrugged. “No idea.”

  “No idea?” He cocked his head. “What did Kruppa tell you?”

  “Same thing that was in the paper.”

  He started slowly shaking his head. “You just happened by?”

  “To play chess. You know, minding my own business.”

  “I don’t know what’s more BS, you playing chess or you minding your own business.” Artie shook his head. “What’s with this name game, Hunter? Is that for Company business? First, assuming you are Jon Mallory.”

  “Yes, Artie, I’m Kevin’s brother.” I didn’t want to talk about Bobby Kruppa anyway. “No, I’m not on Company business. I am still legally Jon Mallory. I’m sure you used aliases over there, too.”

  “Never.” He eyed me. “I’ve known Kevin for over a year. He never mentioned you.”

  “He’s been my brother all my life, and he never mentioned you, either.”

  “Sure, sure. Okay.” Artie aimed a bony finger at me. “Why the bad blood between you two?”

  Fair question. Instead of answering, I asked one myself. “Artie, who is Khalifah? What does ‘G’ mean?”

  For a moment, a flicker of something—not quite panic but more than concern—flashed on Artie’s face. “You tell me. You’re the spook.”

  The interview room door opened and Agent Victoria Bacarro entered. As she did, I noticed Mo Nassar from the river just outside the door looking in. He held my gaze until the door shut. That eerie tingle crept up my spine again.

  “Artie, is your pal Nassar a spook?” I watched him for a lie. “Don’t tell me ‘he’s nobody.’”

  “He’s nobody.” Artie was a terrible liar. Mo Nassar was most assuredly a spook. Perhaps like or unlike me. I knew because, like dogs, we can sniff each other out.

  My attention fell to Agent Bacarro. There was no rainy darkness to shroud her now. She had strong features—not manly, but firm and sturdy—with a light olive complexion and dark shoulder-length hair pulled back. Her business suit couldn’t hide her well-shaped curves that begged my attention. For professional observation and analysis, that is.

  Now, this was an FBI agent. Or a supermodel. Maybe I worked for the wrong federal agency.

  “Hunter,” she said, leaning against the wall, “please continue. Artie explained our security consultant from Germany is actually CIA from Afghanistan. I just had to say hello.”

  I glanced at Artie. “I thought only I called you Artie.”

  He silently mouthed, “Screw you.”

  Bacarro locked her eyes on me. “I’m very interested in how you arrived just in time for your brother’s homicide. It’s a little ironic, considering your profession. Don’t you think?”

  “That’s not irony, that’s bad luck.” I stood. “I’m not an assassin. I’m a consultant.”

  “Easy, Hunter.” Artie motioned me back to the chair. “No one’s accused you of anything.”

  “No, that’s right.” Agent Bacarro took one of the spare chairs against the wall and sat backwards in it. “Noor says you had issues with Kevin, but then he called you home.”

  Artie hooked a thumb at me. “Hunter was just about to explain, Agent Bacarro.”

  The words caught in my throat, but I got them out, unable to look at either of them when I did. “He sent a letter to a drop box I use. It’s hard to get mail when you’re on the move, so it took two weeks to find me overseas. I started home a few days ago.”

  “Do you still have the letter?” Bacarro asked. “What did it say, exactly.”

  “He asked me to come home. I figured he wanted to fix things up. We’re not getting any younger.”

  “That’s it?” Artie probed my face for a lie. “You sure?”

  I nodded.

  He let me simmer while he and Bacarro had a telepathic discussion. He finally asked, “Any ideas who killed him?”

  “Khalifah or the guy at Noor’s yesterday. Maybe whoever ‘Maya in Baltimore’ is? They could all be the same person. Maybe they’re looking for this ‘G,’ whoever he is. You guys got anything?”

  “The investigation is ongoing and we’re following every lead.” Bacarro delivered the FBI mantra. “We cannot comment.”

  “Bull.” I leaned back and forced a fake, hoarse laugh. “The newspaper has a big story.”

  “We have nothing.” Artie threw a curt glance at Bacarro. “Not a damn thing. The truck at the river was stolen months ago, and it’s a dead end.”

  I looked from one to the other and asked a direct question that should get me a direct answer. “What’s coming out of Sand Town? Seems like that’s a logical place to start looking for a killer, right?”

  “You’d think so, yes,” Agent Bacarro said, glancing at Artie. “But we can’t go rousting refugees and locals just because they look like bad guys. That’s called profiling, Hunter. We don’t do that.”

  More bull. “You don’t have any probable cause or anything to get you into Sand Town?”

  “You let me worry about that,” Artie snapped. “We’re the FBI. We move on evidence, not street gossip. When, or if, we get any for Sand Town—Sandy Creek—we’ll move on it.”

  “Sure, Artie, sure.” I riled him and didn’t want to let go of the bite I had. “Who’s Khalifah? Every time I say the name, you guys flinch.”

  “It’s classified,” he said. “Still, we don’t know much about him. It suffices to say he’s an ISIS asset.”

  “In Winchester?”

  Agent Bacarro nodded. “We don’t know. Maybe. Maybe he’s still in the Middle East and calling the shots from there.”

  I let that sink in. “So, why is Kevin’s murder FBI business? Task force or not, the Feds rarely worry about pesky murders.”

/>   “Because he’s been working Sand T—” Artie caught himself again. “The Muslim community that’s developed out in Sandy Creek. You got into the scuffle with two of them last night. We’re working some other related activities. The BCI assigned Kevin to us. He worked for Agent Bacarro. She works for me.”

  Bacarro added, “When one of our own goes down, the FBI takes it seriously. We’re working it with the State and locals. But we’re lead.”

  “Got it. You’re in charge and following every lead. You cannot comment further. Sorry I asked.” I was, too.

  Agent Bacarro leaned forward and did this funny thing with the corner of her mouth. It would have been sort of sexy if she hadn’t ruined it with more questions.

  “What about the forty-five semiautomatic Bond took from you?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “I can get my hands on a gun—legally. That is, if I need one.”

  “Do you need one?” Agent Bacarro folded her arms.

  Was she paying attention? “Look, someone tried to kill me as soon as I arrived here. They already killed my brother. Next, someone took Noor hostage. Last night, two other somebodies tried to fillet me.”

  “You’re surprised?” Agent Bacarro glanced from Artie to me. “I just met you and I want to kill you.”

  I liked her.

  Artie’s eyes focused on me again. “Look, Hunter, I understand you want revenge for Kevin. But that’s not justice. This isn’t the Middle East. CIA rules don’t apply here.”

  I leaned back. “Potayto, potahto.”

  “No.” Artie aimed a long, slender finger at me. “We’ll do this our way. The legal way. No street rules.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I can read your mind,” he said in a dry voice. “You’re going to cause mayhem. That’s a very bad idea. This isn’t Riyadh or Baghdad. There are police and laws and warrants and courts. You can’t go around shooting things up. We have to be accountable.”

  “Of course, Artie, accountable.”

  “Ah, Christ, Hunter, don’t even think about it.”

  “No, I get it.” I leaned back. “Honest. Besides, I’m only here for a few days.”

  “Quit the Agency? Tired of the cloak and dagger?”

  I shook my head. “Just a little R & R.”

  “LaRue isn’t hiding in the shadows somewhere?”

  “I already told you, Artie. I haven’t seen him.”

  Artie pressed. “Really?”

  I made an exaggerated X over my heart. “You have my word.”

  “Why am I worried?”

  I pushed a little more. “So, what about the crispy guy in the pickup truck?”

  “No comment. You have no comment either, for the papers or anyone else.” Bacarro raised her chin the way FBI agents do when they want to look authoritative. “I mean that, Hunter. No comments from you.”

  “My mistake.” Why were they playing so many games? “Can I talk about the hazmat team at the river yesterday?”

  Bacarro’s mouth snapped closed so loud I heard a filling loosen. Artie’s very African-American face turned Caucasian.

  Had I struck a nerve?

  Artie’s eyes zeroed on mine. “You’re getting close to the Patriot Act, Hunter.”

  “I’ve been told that before.” The Patriot Act might land me in a jail cell for eons without benefit of lawyer, due process, or freedom until old age erased any memories of the aforementioned biohazard cleanup team and crispy body at the river. The Patriot Act had already confiscated my retirement fund.

  Artie and Bacarro locked eyes and had a conversation without moving their lips.

  I eased their minds. “No worries, guys. We’re all in this together. My lips are sealed. I’m one of the good guys.”

  Artie shook his head. “Now we’re in trouble.”

  “All right, then, Hunter,” Bacarro said and walked to the door. Before she left, she turned around and fired a shot across my bow. “We’ll hold you to that. If you open your mouth, you’re going to jail for obstruction. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Artie stood and came around the table. His eyes dropped, and for a minute, he looked sad and far away.

  I leaned back. “You’re not going to hug me or anything, right?”

  “No.” He touched my shoulder. “I’m truly sorry about Kevin.”

  “Thanks.” Then I ruined the mood. “It’s good to be working with you again.”

  “We’re not working together.” Artie stabbed my shoulder with a finger. “Get that through your stone-head.”

  “Right, we’re not working together.” I smiled. “Got it.”

  “Dammit, Hunter, you never change.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Day 3: May 17, 0945 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Sandy Creek—Sand Town—Rural Frederick County, Virginia

  SANDY CREEK, VIRGINIA, was once a small farming community twelve miles southwest of Winchester nestled among the rolling hills leading deeper into the Shenandoah Mountains. It had been decades since the farms sold out or went bankrupt and the only steady employer, a textile mill, closed for good. What remained until a year ago were vacant houses, a small grocery store and lunch stop diner that served the occasional tourist driving the mountain roads, and a few run-down businesses that hadn’t had customers for a generation.

  A little over fourteen months ago, a developer moved into town and began refurbishing the homes into livable—albeit barely—properties. A few months later, a wave of Middle Eastern refugees began populating the dying town. Business started to rekindle. The grocery store began to cater to the new clientele and the small diner turned into a tea shop offering a taste of the locals’ homelands.

  Within six months, the town was nearly repopulated with Syrians, Afghanis, Iraqis, and other Middle Easterners. Two months later, Sandy Creek was rarely spoken and Sand Town became its moniker.

  Not everyone in Frederick County was happy to see the town revitalized.

  Caine was no stranger to Sand Town and left the diner on foot. He walked across the road to a two-story, four-bay cement block garage. There, an older Iraqi mechanic and his eldest son were working on one of two school buses parked inside the garage.

  As Caine approached, the older man shooed his son away to the rear of the garage. The man waited until Caine stopped beneath the open garage door before he turned and acknowledged him.

  “Salaam,” the mechanic said, bowing slightly. He continued in Arabic. “We are not finished yet. I am waiting on the remaining parts.”

  Caine surveyed the first bus—Bus 219. Alongside it were a series of long pipes and a box of spray nozzles similar to fire sprinkler heads. Caine replied in Arabic, “What are you missing?”

  “Connectors and air compressor controllers. The wiring for the controls. I am not a plumber or an electrician, I am a mechanic. I do my best to meet Khalifah’s demands. But what he asks is difficult.”

  “Khalifah has not asked anything. He commands.” Caine glared at the man. “Do your best. I’ll check on your supplies.”

  The older mechanic looked to the ground for a long moment. When he looked up, his eyes were teary and his face pale and meek. “Will he and Saeed Mansouri understand it is not my fault? Will he not hurt my family?”

  “I don’t know what Khalifah understands or not. Saeed is a thug that Khalifah has on a leash.” Caine turned to go but stopped and turned back around. “I will see he does not hurt your family because of this delay. Make certain there are no others.”

  “Shukran. Shukran.” The mechanic ran to Caine and took his hand in both of his, thanking him over and over and nearly pulling Caine off-balance. “I am in your debt.”

  “Yes, you are.” Caine pulled free. “Remember that, too.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Day 3: May 17, 0945 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Frederick County Sheriff’s Office, Outside Winchester, Virginia

  BY THE TIME Artie arranged for Bond to release me and even return my .45, it was after my break
fast time and I was starved. Cop coffee and plastic-packaged, stale donuts didn’t count as the most important meal of the day. So, I wandered Old Town until I found a nice sidewalk breakfast café, took an outside table, and ordered a heaping breakfast. The server, an older woman with pulled-back gray hair and a plump, puffy face, poured me coffee with a wide, friendly smile, and disappeared. Between sips, I sat and watched the people around town.

  I half-expected Bond and Perry to be hiding behind newspapers and cheap sunglasses nearby. But no, they were nowhere to be seen.

  I sipped my coffee and Kevin joined me at the table—memories, conversations—regrets. The ache was gone. Most of it. I kept it at bay by focusing on what was ahead. Thoughts about the old times were bittersweet. Some memories made me laugh. Well, now I could laugh. Once, Kevin had to get the neighbors to drop trespassing charges against me. I was fifteen and had broken into our neighbor’s garage. Inside, there were secret radios and stolen government secrets. I was sure that Mr. Chan Lee was a Chinese spy—a clandestine agent plotting to overthrow our government. Much to my dismay, Mr. Lee was not from Beijing, but Buffalo. He was not a spy. He was a dentist. I spent the entire summer mowing lawns for restitution.

  Ah, the good old days.

  When I looked up from my coffee, Noor Mallory loomed above me. She was stone-faced and her eyes dark and cold. I’d spent a few days held by Afghan warlords while they decided if I would be a guest at dinner or cut into little pieces. The look on her face made me reminisce for those days. I was never good figuring out women, but I think she was upset with me.

  “We must talk. Now, I think.”

  Oh crap.

  She didn’t wait for an invitation and sat across from me.

  “Um, sure.” Okay, Hunter, don’t screw this one up. “Everything okay? Are the deputies still at your home?”

  “Yes. Sam did not mention the fight last evening. Dave told me.”

  “He didn’t?” My heart sank. Of all the people I didn’t want to disappoint, it was Noor. “Look, things got a little out of hand.”

  She glared at me. “I cannot have Sam involved in such things. He has enough problems.”

  I held up my cup and flashed my best puppy dog eyes. “Coffee?”