The Consultant

by TJ O'Connor

  Sam jumped up and went inside.

  I watched him go. “Noor, I shouldn’t. Sam would agree.”

  “He will be fine. Please, Jon. Consider it. For me?”

  What the devil was wrong with me? Suddenly, I yearned for a sweltering stone room with a lumpy cot in Goat-Town-Syria. “It wouldn’t work.”

  “I do not care what Sam likes.” She stood up and moved around the table behind me. I felt her arms wrapped around my shoulders and her hair fall against my neck. I trembled when she whispered, “I would rather it be you than the deputies nearby. I need you. Sam does, too.”

  Words wouldn’t form. Thoughts wouldn’t stop swirling. My breath stopped. It took a moment to settle before taking her hands in mine. “Noor, I have to think about it.”

  “Yes, of course.” She glanced away and then back, holding my eyes. “Drive us to the funeral tomorrow. Please, Jon?”

  Steady, Hunter. One, two, three. “Of course.”

  Gravel crunched out front of the house as a car approached.

  Thank God.

  Noor and I walked around to the front porch as a four-door Chevy rolled to a stop in the driveway beside my rental. Bond climbed out. He leaned against his cruiser and took us in. He looked from Noor to me with the grin of a cat that just picked the canary cage lock.

  “Oh, no,” Noor whispered and headed for him.

  I started to follow when Sam emerged from the house and stood beside me. “Hunter, he wanted Dad out of the way.”

  “Sam?”

  “There’s more Mom isn’t telling.”

  No kidding. “Like what?”

  “Ask her.” When Bond’s voice grew louder, Sam added, “I don’t trust you, Hunter. I don’t like you either. But I like Bond less.”

  I reached for his shoulder, but he pulled away. “Sam, we need to be friends. We’re family.”

  “No,” he said. “Family does not hurt each other. You are not my family. I don’t even know who you are. But I know what you are.”

  Whoa, where was that coming from. “What am I, Sam?”

  He grumbled something and went back into the house.

  I wanted to follow him, but Bond was animated now. His hands chopped the air. Noor recoiled from him, and I sauntered over.

  Tough guys saunter.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “What do you want, Hunter?” Bond jutted a square chin at me. “If that’s your name today.”

  “Should I spell it?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I just rented a room here.” I looked from Noor to Bond. “What are you doing here?”

  Bond turned red. Blood red.

  Noor started to speak, but I touched her arm, and she grasped my hand and held it there.

  I caught Bond’s eyes. “Did you need something, Dave?”

  For a long, dangerous moment, his eyes telegraphed my demise appendage by appendage. I braced myself for an attack. Oddly enough, he didn’t. Maybe it was the image of me beating down two Middle Eastern thugs. Or maybe he didn’t want to stain Noor’s driveway with my blood.

  “Hunter, I don’t know what game you’re playing,” Bond said. “But I don’t like it. You stay clear of Noor and Sam, you hear me?”

  I laughed. “It’s ‘get out of town by sundown’? From now on, call before you stop in. I’d hate to think you were a prowler and shoot you. Or maybe I wouldn’t hate it.”

  Bond’s face went dark. His jaw tightened and his teeth ground. Just when I thought he would swing at me, he retreated to his car. “Hunter, I’ll be watching. Count on it.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Day 3: May 17, 2115 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Old Town, Winchester, Virginia

  THE HANDLEY REGIONAL Library is located in Winchester’s Old Town district a block off the walking mall. Obviously, it’s named for John Handley, a Pennsylvania judge who left a bundle in 1895-ish for Winchester to build such a library. Old John had class, thus the Beaux-Arts limestone building that the historians will tell you was built to resemble an open book. I don’t see it, but that’s what the Internet said. The grand building has an octagonal entrance beneath a central dome that looks very, well, Beaux-Arts, I guess. There are two large wings off the main base with stone relief figures, balustrades, and colonnades—yep, the Internet—those are fancy railings and columns. At night, the library is more impressive than in daylight. The stalwart structure is accented by landscaping lights that gave it a majestic appearance. I love old architecture. That’s one of the things I love about Winchester. The turn-of-the-century charm.

  Not tonight.

  When Bond left Noor’s place, I stayed a while longer and exchanged more reminiscence of my travels with her. More to calm her nerves than anything. Sam stayed clear. After another hour, I bade them goodnight and headed for my clandestine rendezvous with the mysterious “G.”

  The “mysterious” part had my hair up, and I double-checked my .45 twice on my way to Old Town.

  “G” could be friend or foe. He could be witness or killer. Because of that, I would observe “G” arrive and be ready for anything. I weaved my way through side streets and alleys in northwest Winchester until I positioned myself on Library Lane, a small street a quarter block northwest of the rear of the library. It was nine twenty when I sat to wait. From the safety of night shadows and a large maple tree, I watched the library and the alley behind it that ran the length of the building and alongside a patio area where picnic tables and benches sat empty. My position allowed me to see whoever approached from three sides.

  In Mosul, Iraq, I learned the hard way that when you had such a meeting, you arrive extra early just to watch the other team show. It can save your life. Bad guys like to ambush you or plant IEDs—improvised explosive devices—so when you arrive late, you die a horrible, violent death. LaRue used to say, “The second to arrive dies.” I nearly did on my first rendezvous with an Iraqi snitch by ignoring his wisdom. He never let me forget that, either.

  My watch showed 10:05 when someone rounded the corner a half a block to my right. The figure crossed the street and headed for the rear of the library. It was about five-four and thin. I couldn’t make out his features, but it was a man. He walked slow and uneasy, perhaps worried about a trap.

  We already had something in common.

  I slipped my .45 out and used the building’s shadows to angle behind him as he stopped beside the bushes near the picnic tables. I reached the rear of the bushes, still in total stealth, and lifted my .45. Then, I eased in close.

  “Sit at that picnic table, hands on top.”

  The man jumped and started to turn.

  “Easy.”

  He didn’t turn, but his hands slowly rose in surrender. “I sent the note. I am Ghali. I at river. I bring something.”

  Bingo—“G.” I inched forward. “All right. Turn around. Slow. I have a big gun aimed at your head. I don’t miss very often.”

  “Baleh, Hunter.”

  Hunter? I stepped close and patted him down with quick, hasty handfuls of his clothes. “You called this soiree. What do you want?”

  “Swar-ray?” Ghali’s face twisted and his hands lowered.

  “What do you want?”

  “Please, you scare me.” He smiled, showing a dingy mouthful of teeth. Then he rattled off a download of information that made my head spin. “At river, I there with Saeed and the box. A man bring it to Saeed. I no see him anywhere before that night.”

  I glanced around. “Who is Saeed?”

  Ghali stiffened. “Saeed Mansouri. He is often in Sand Town—Sandy Creek. We are refugees from Afghanistan and Iraq. A few Syrian families arrived now. But Saeed is not one of us. He and his men are terrible men—Iranians. They are outsiders. Saeed Mansouri is a Raees.”

  I knew what that was. A“Raees” was the big boss—the local village gang-boss. Militia chieftain. More succinctly, chief thug.

  “Is he a refugee, too?”

  Ghali shook hi
s head and looked down. “I will not say. Not here. No. He is not one of us. None of his men are. Do not ask me until you have me safe. But I will tell you Saeed is not the only one. There are others.”

  Others? Terrorists? I understood why Saeed Mansouri had him scared to death.

  “Okay, go on. Tell me about Saeed’s box.”

  Ghali breathed easier. “Saeed tell two of his men to open this box. One man, he afraid, he held the box and would not open it. Saeed mad and shoot. First he hit the box. Then he shoot the man. The box open and fall on him. Very bad. Alhamdulillah. He a mad man.”

  “Whoa, whoa, slow down. Who brought the case? The box, I mean?”

  “It come from somewhere I do not know. I was there only to drive. Saeed order me to use my truck.”

  “Was it Khalifah who sent the box?”

  “You know of Khalifah? Caine?”

  LaRue was right. Caine was involved. “Was the box a steel case with a funny lock?”

  “Baleh, funny lock.” Ghali shot uneasy glances around the darkness.

  I pressed him. “Tell me about Khalifah.”

  “If you help me. I tell you everything I know. He is a very bad man—he and Caine. But they are outsiders like Saeed Mansouri. They make those in Sand Town do things they not wish to do.”

  A car made the turn along the street behind the library and Ghali jumped back into the bushes. When it was gone, he stayed put.

  “Deal,” I said. “I’ll help you. Tell me about the case and the killings.”

  “Everyone fear what in case. Everyone who touched it when it opened is dead.” Ghali’s head swiveled toward every sound and headlight for a block.

  I raised a hand to calm him. “What was in the box?”

  Another car passed behind us and slowed.

  Ghali backed deeper into the bushes.

  The car eased on.

  My radar started pinging and now I was jumpy. “What was in the box, G?”

  “I want protection.” Ghali’s voice was hurried, scared. “Saeed, he divoonei. You say crazy. Caine, he alqatil.”

  I knew what alqatil meant. Killer. Assassin. We knew about the same Caine.

  Ghali went on. “Something in the case very bad. Everyone who touched it when the case broke open dead.”

  Ghali knew more, and I pressed him. “You know more, G. Out with it. What happened after the case broke open?”

  “I not know. I run away after he started shooting. I run fast into the woods. I do not want to be near Saeed any longer. I help you find who kill you brother. Saeed and Khalifah have many plans. Big plans. Very bad things.”

  “Ghali, did you see who shot Kevin Mallory?”

  “I know much more. Much.” Ghali hesitated; then, “Deal first. Then I give you more.”

  Well, he might not be the witness I wanted, but he was better than nothing. From my wallet, I pulled out the first bill I could find. A fifty. With the pen I’d swiped from Artie earlier, I jotted my cell phone number on it in bold numbers I could see in the dim light.

  “Here’s my number.” I handed him the fifty. “Call me tomorrow at noon sharp. I’ll have everything set up to get you safely to my people.”

  He stuffed the bill into his jeans. “Baleh. I trust you?”

  “You trust me.”

  “Okay, I have message then, ‘Why Kevin Mallory not stop the mall? You must help before more happens.’” He thrust his hand into his back pocket.

  I lifted my pistol. “Don’t be stupid, Ghali.”

  “No, you no understand. I have something.”

  Headlights spotlighted us when a car swung sharply around the corner of the library and turned into the alley. Red lights flashed on and a wooop-wooop sounded. A voice called out, “Freeze! Don’t move!”

  Bond.

  “Dammit.” I turned to Ghali. “Go. Run.”

  “Nah, nah.” Ghali bolted down the alleyway into the darkness. When he did, Bond wrenched his car to the right and hopped the curb to give chase.

  Before I knew what had happened, Ghali—the mysterious “G”—and Bond were gone.

  So was I.

  CHAPTER 38

  Day 4: May 18, 0100 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Fool’s Lake, Virginia

  ON MY WAY out of Winchester, I took extra precautions to check myself for surveillance. While I dry-cleaned myself, and twice thought I was followed and had to take evasive actions, I called LaRue and filled him in on my meeting and a few tidbits I got from Noor Mallory. He was his charming, curmudgeon self until I brought up the name Saeed Mansouri. I swear I heard his sphincter snap closed.

  “Bring Ghali in,” Oscar said dryly. “Get him in safely and fast. He could be the key to locating Khalifah and stopping Maya. When he contacts you tomorrow, I will dispatch Shepard to back you up.”

  “Got it.”

  “You are sanctioned to take on all risks.”

  Sanctioned to take on all risks? “Ah, Oscar, is that your way of telling me to take a bullet for him?”

  LaRue had hung up.

  “Good talk, Oscar,” I said to no one. “Oh yeah, I’ll be safe. No worries.”

  That Oscar LaRue—always worried about me.

  * * *

  It was nearly three hours since leaving Handley Library when darkness swallowed the mountain road beneath me. Even with my high beams on, I nearly veered off into nothingness. Nothingness could have been a brush thicket or a five-hundred-foot crevasse.

  When I reached Fool’s Lake it was one a.m. The stars flickered through the pine canopy guarding the cabin and gave it a storybook touch. That is, if that story was about murder and terrorists.

  At the cabin, I knew Bobby hadn’t fared well in my absence. Despite my careful preparations. My directions had been explicit. Rule one—keep the blinds drawn with light and noise at a minimum. Rule two—don’t go outside unless it’s to run like hell. Rule three—keep my father’s double-barreled 12-gauge Ithaca within arm’s reach. If anyone showed up with a bad attitude, ventilate them, and institute rule two.

  Simple, right?

  Beacons of light shined out every window. Rap music penetrated my ears like an artillery barrage. By the time I backed the rental behind the woodshed, my head ached. Boom-boom-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom.

  Bobby must have thrown a party.

  There was no one around the mountain roads, but the music and lights were a beacon for anyone searching for us. What came of my instructions I didn’t know. Bobby had been nervous, but after a quick class on how to safely load and shoot the shotgun, he eased up.

  The cabin’s electricity was out. I hadn’t taken the time to crank up the generator. The only light inside should have been the one kerosene lantern I left lit. Except now it looked like Broadway on Saturday night. I did a quick perimeter check and found every one of the half a dozen lanterns and two dozen candles burning inside. But it was the boom-boom-boom that irritated me most, and my first act would be the complete and total destruction of Bobby’s music collection. With a check through the cabin windows, one thing was clear.

  Bobby wasn’t there.

  My .45 in hand, I returned to the front porch. “Bobby, it’s Jon, I’m coming in. Don’t shoot.”

  Boom-boom-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. Jesus, make it stop.

  “Bobby?”

  Inside, I flattened myself against the wall and scanned the room in quick, freeze-frame snapshots. No furniture was disturbed. No signs of a struggle or incursion. No shotgun blasts on the walls. No Bobby Kruppa.

  “Bobby? Come out!”

  Nothing.

  All the rooms were the same—empty of the blubbery, pastyfaced college kid with the bull’s-eye on his head. When I moved toward the small dinette table in the tiny kitchen, I kicked something across the floor. There was a second something, identical to the first—12-guage shotgun shells. Unspent. Unfired.

  Oh crap, kid. What happened?

  I scooped up the shells and stuffed them into my pocket. The hair bristled on my neck. The dead
bolt on the back door had been opened from the inside but the security chain was pulled out of the door. Someone had forced the door open after the dead bolt was released and ripped it from the wood. I backtracked and slipped out the front door to sneak around back. At the rear corner, secreted by night shadows and murky darkness, I followed my .45 toward the woodshed. Moving low and doing the stalking dance, I scanned for targets. At the shed, my breath finally eased.

  No gunshots. No crackle of dried pine needles. No ninja assassins.

  The shed door was still locked from the outside. No one could be within.

  As I rounded the shed corner toward my rental car, pine branches crackled behind me. I pivoted, swung my pistol around, and tried to intercept whoever approached.

  I was half a second too late.

  A club collided with my hands and sent my pistol clattering against the woodshed. A bulky figure, wide and ominous, emerged through the night. He was on the backswing and closed on me for a head shot.

  Instead of retreating to avoid the impact, I leaped forward and did a jumping-bicycle step and delivered a kick into my attacker’s midsection. My instep slammed into flesh and bone. I’d hoped for the solar plexus, but still sent him backward with a loud, guttural umph. Before he could rebound, I landed, twisted in a violent arc, and slashed my right leg around. At the apex of the arc, I launched a heel-kick into his middle. The impact exploded an audible burst of wind from him and sent him down hard.

  He coughed twice, three times … four. He gasped for air.

  It would have been easy to finish him. One quick heel-thrust into his windpipe and it would be over. But then all I’d have was a body and no one to interrogate about Bobby’s whereabouts. Without that, I might not find him. So I retrieved my .45 and pulled out my cell phone for its flashlight. The assailant didn’t know it yet, but he was about to provide me all I wanted to know about the absent Bobby Kruppa.

  No, that wasn’t necessary. I had all I needed. Bobby was on his back gasping for breath with one hand on his gut and the other waving his surrender.

  “Bobby?”

  He gasped twice more and struggled to his knees. “Sh … sh … shit. You almost killed me.”

  “You attacked me.” I helped him to his feet. “I told you to stay inside unless you had to run.”