The Consultant

by TJ O'Connor

  I shrugged. “It’s out of my hands, Bobby.”

  With a flip of her chin, Victoria sent two Feds to Bobby. They scooped him up and stuffed him into one of their cars. He argued with them the entire way. They had no idea how long a ride it was going to be back to Winchester.

  Boy, was LaRue going to be pissed at me.

  Victoria turned back to me. “What do you have to say?”

  “Gee, Victoria, ain’t we friends anymore?”

  “We never were.” She folded her arms. “Answer the question.”

  “I haven’t heard a question.”

  Artie stepped forward. “You met with some informant last night at the library in town. What’s that about, Hunter? Withholding information is obstruction.”

  I looked at Artie and then at Bond. “Wow, you are resourceful.”

  Artie pointed at me. “What did he tell you, Hunter?”

  “I didn’t get anything from him, Artie.” Okay, a lie. Maybe two. Well, more coming. “Bond showed up and blew the entire meeting. Too bad, too. He has something to share.”

  Bond jumped forward and snatched my arm. “You’re no cop, Hunter.”

  “Enough, Bond,” Victoria barked. “Go with my men and Kruppa to the office.”

  Bond started to argue but gave up when Artie held up a hand. He stormed off for the car.

  Artie ignored him. “Let’s hear about your secret rendezvous at the library, Hunter. Before I charge you with obstruction.”

  I watched Bond climb into the car beside Bobby. “Ask him, Artie. Your attack dog was there. Before I could get anything out of the guy, Bond showed up and chased him down. I left. If you wanted in on it, you should have come alone.”

  “I didn’t send Bond.” Artie’s eyes dissected me.

  “Who was it?” Victoria asked. “When are you meeting him again?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, Bond—”

  “Chased him off,” Artie growled. He motioned to the two FBI agents lingering near the cars. “Search this place. Every nook and cranny.”

  The men headed into the cabin eager to rearrange my furniture.

  To me, Artie said, “You’re coming in with us, Hunter. You can help with Kruppa, and then we’ll sort out this meeting of yours last night.”

  That wasn’t going to work. I had better things to do. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my spiffy new Department of Homeland Security credentials LaRue gave me for just such emergencies. I handed them to Artie.

  I pointed to my creds. “I think I’ll pass on the sing-along, Artie. If you have any problems with that, call those folks.”

  He looked at the badge and credentials and passed them to Victoria. “This is pure fantasy, Hunter. You’re no more a DHS agent than I am.”

  “I am now. Well, as of yesterday.”

  Victoria looked the creds over. “I think we’ll just verify this.”

  I winked. “Sure. There’s a card with a number in there for some deputy director in DC. He’ll be happy to help.”

  Artie glared at me. “My, my, you do have a lot of new friends. I thought you said you haven’t heard from Oscar LaRue.”

  “That was early yesterday. I saw him later, and he said DHS wanted me to be a G-man just like you. So poof, I’m a G-man now. Well, for a while.”

  Artie let loose a string of expletives that even made me blush.

  “Come on, Artie. We’re all on the same team.”

  “Really?” Victoria snapped. “You seem to change teams a lot.”

  She was warming to me, I could tell.

  One of the FBI agents Artie sent to search the house came around the side of the cabin. “Agent Polo, come around back.”

  That didn’t sound good.

  I followed Artie and Victoria around the cabin to where the FBI agent and his partner were standing near the woodshed beside my rental car. The first thing I noticed was that the woodpile was strewn about and the place where Kevin’s go-bag was hidden was just a freshly dug hole. One of the agents held a shovel and the other held the ballistic-nylon duffel bag—Kevin’s go-bag. The bag seemed a little too light to have the ten grand in cash, three passports, and a .380 semiautomatic inside.

  The agent holding the shovel said, “We found this mess and the dirt hole.” He gestured to what had been the woodpile and the hole where I’d returned the duffel bag for safekeeping. “We found this empty bag in the hole.”

  Artie went closer and examined the hole, then picked up the name plate from Hunter’s grave. He ran his finger around the engraved letters and laughed.

  “Really, Hunter? You’re named after the dog?”

  “Funny.” He was born first and he was a great dog.

  Victoria ignored me. “What was in the bag, Hunter?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked around the rear of the cabin, hoping to find some explanation of who had been there. There wasn’t, of course. “I have no idea what happened back here and I’ve been nothing if not truthful. Well, truthful since you interrogated me last time. Maybe not at the river the first night. But truthful since. Oh, not in my hotel room with Bond either. But later in my hotel with you, yes. And today for sure. Nothing but truthful today.”

  Artie’s eyebrows rose. “Hotel room?”

  “She was a wild cat, Artie. Wah-hoo.”

  Victoria dismissed me with a nasty glance. “It was business. No idea about the bag?”

  I shook my head. “Someone was here last night. Ask Bobby. They must have come for whatever was in there. I have no idea what’s going on.”

  Artie said to the agent, “Look around. Check around the other woodpiles and the shed.”

  One agent kicked apart the remaining woodpile and the other went to the shed door and yanked.

  “It’s locked,” I said. “Key’s in the—”

  The agent swung the shovel and hacked off the old hasp with one swing. The door popped open and he went inside.

  “Agent Polo, Agent Bacarro, there’s something here.” The agent’s voice was hard and brassy. “Inside.”

  They went to the shed door. But when I got there, things got worse fast.

  A body lay wrapped in clear plastic on the dirt floor. It looked like a young Arab, perhaps twenty-five years old. He had been a handsome man, young and slender, with a hard, strong body. Now, his eyes bulged and his face wore a pale, gruesome death mask—the result of the bullet hole in his forehead.

  Even through the plastic wrapping I recognized Ghali from the Handley Library.

  All eyes fell to me. For once, I was speechless.

  CHAPTER 41

  Day 4: May 18, 0800 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Union Station, Washington, DC

  THE GRAY DULLES express cab made the long, jerky trek around Columbus Circle through traffic lights and pedestrian traffic to reach the Union Station entrance in Northeast DC. The passenger paid the driver for the fare from Alexandria, tipped him generously, and climbed out. In near panic, he nearly forgot his shoulder bag and had to stop the taxi from leaving to retrieve it.

  He was unaccustomed to carrying it. Strangely enough, he had no idea what was in the bag. His instruction had been explicit—do not open the parcel inside, deliver the bag as directed, and his family would be fine. A cash reward awaited him at his destination, too.

  Sweating, he crossed the brick street through the steel security bollards and entered the station beneath the grand arch. A moment later, he stood beneath the historic barreled ceiling in the atrium among hundreds of rush-hour passengers scurrying to or from trains.

  He checked his watch. He was on time. Alhamdulillah—Praise be to Allah.

  Sadik Samaan was a tall, lanky Afghanistan refugee. He was clean-shaven with short, tight black hair. He was dressed in a gray suit pressed just that morning, and a white button-down dress shirt. Trying not to draw attention, he moved across the marble floor and headed for the train departure entrance. He tried not to look over his shoulder or make eye contact with anyone. As he approached the cent
er of the atrium, the cell phone he’d been given rang.

  “Salaam?” He answered too quickly and knew his voice was two octaves too high. “Baleh.”

  The voice spoke easily and calmly. “Sadik, this is Saeed. Meet me at the center ticket counter on the street level. I have more information for you. I will buy your ticket as well. Go now. Hurry.”

  “If you please, how will I know you?”

  “I know you. Just wait in the center line and I’ll meet you shortly.”

  Saeed Mansouri hung up.

  Sadik breathed easier, adjusted the strap of his shoulder bag more securely, and headed for the ticket counter. He walked easier now. He was on time and all would be fine. Saeed would be on time. They would travel to their meeting, and he would make the transfer smoothly. His parents would be freed and even rewarded. All their troubles would be gone. Saeed Mansouri would leave them in peace. Alhamdulillah.

  The ticket lines were long and wound through the lanes of metal stanchions and nylon belts that weaved rivers of people around the floor to guide them to available ticket desks. Security guards posted around the area stood indifferent to the morning commuters and paid Sadik no mind.

  He stepped into his place at the center ticket line and waited among the many passengers around him. Ten minutes went by before his cell phone buzzed again. By then, he was deep among the sea of passengers. He slid his cell phone out of his suitcoat pocket and looked at it.

  There was no call.

  Another buzz.

  He was dead before his brain registered that the strange vibration emanated from his shoulder bag.

  The explosion ripped through the lines of passengers around Sadik. It vaporized everything in its wake until the blast wave collided with the terminal walls and bounced back, causing a second wave of destruction.

  Even before the blast wave began, no one within two hundred yards registered the flash or the ferocious cacophony. They had already perished.

  * * *

  Eighty miles away in a small, empty office, Khalifah read the text message from Saeed Mansouri. He switched cell phones and watched the pandemonium through the camera mounted in the SUV he’d parked nearby Union Station just yesterday. The crowds ran haphazardly from the station, many directly at the SUV across Columbus Square. Many stumbled out of the station and fell once they reached the street. He waited until a larger crowd formed near the perceived safety of his SUV and dialed a number from memory. The call triggered the second blast within the SUV—turning the heavy automobile into millions of fragment projectiles and deadly shrapnel missiles.

  In those few seconds, nearly four hundred people were dead.

  CHAPTER 42

  Day 4: May 18, 1150 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  FBI Task Force Office, Winchester, Virginia

  THE FBI HOLDING cell was more uncomfortable than the cell I’d been in in Amman two years ago. That’s in Jordan and they’re our ally. That’s not to say that the FBI isn’t an ally. They’re, well, us, and should have better accommodations. The only difference was that here I had a metal chair to sit on, and in Amman I shared a stone bench with eight sweaty, smelly tribesmen. At least now I could put my feet up on the interview table and nap.

  Desperate times are exhausting.

  I guess having a dead body in your woodshed trumped my DHS credentials. I might have slid past them for hiding Bobby Kruppa for a while, and failing to tell them about meeting with G last night, but the dead guy was a bit much to ask favors over. I’d been there for hours with a bottle of water and the walls for company. Since returning from Fool’s Lake—boy, did that name fit now—I’d gotten the cold shoulder from Victoria and no better from Artie. All he said when he walked me into this cell was, “I’d keep quiet if I were you. Things could get a whole lot worse.”

  I took his advice, uncommon as that was. Needless to say, I failed to mention that the body in the woodshed was Ghali. Kevin’s “G.” I also couldn’t point fingers at Bond for Ghali’s murder. To do so would negate my previous statement that I’d never seen the man in the shed before. Silence was my friend. Sometimes, having a secret was like having two aces up your sleeve.

  The metal holding cell door opened. Artie stood in the doorway for a long moment, chewing on some thought in his head. I hoped it wasn’t a judge’s execution order.

  “Hunter, we got hit again.” His voice was monotone and bleak. “Terrorists hit Union Station this morning. Real bad. Some kid blew the place to hell and there was a secondary explosion waiting in the parking lot across from the entrance. It’s a real mess.”

  “Any intel?” I asked.

  “None. They’re still sorting the bodies. It’s the worst we’ve had since 9/11. The President has declared a state of emergency. The military is itching to bomb someone. As soon as they know who’s responsible, it’s going to start all over again.”

  “It” was our violent entrance into the Gulf after 9/11.

  “Any leads? Anything?”

  “Too early to know. DC is in a full-court press. The President is apparently ready to launch a strike. They just don’t know at whom yet.”

  Union Station was one of the busiest train stations in the country. Since it sits in Washington, DC, it’s also a symbolic target. Another symbolic target. Just like the Pentagon. Just like the Towers. They would start the war all over again. Same tactics, different venue. Union Station and the shopping mall.

  “Okay, Hunter. You’re out.” Artie threw his chin toward the door. “You better keep clean or you’ll be back fast enough to make your nose bleed. DHS creds or not.”

  Well, that’s a good start. “Thanks, Artie. I can make Kevin’s funeral. I knew you’d come through.”

  “It wasn’t me.” He shook his head. “I wanted to hold you another forty-eight hours. The less you’re on the street, the safer Winchester is.”

  “Then who?”

  “Me.” Victoria stood in the doorway.

  I winked at Artie. “You said she didn’t like me.”

  “It’s on her if you screw us again.” He rolled his eyes. “Go to your hotel and stay there for a few days. Order room service. Stay out of fights and gun battles.”

  Good suggestions. “Thanks, Victoria.”

  “Your contact at DHS vouched for you,” she said with a cringe in her eyes. “Even after I told him you had a body in your shed. He didn’t seem happy about it. Whoever pulled these strings is gonna have a lot to answer for with him.”

  I nodded. “I’ll send him a fruit basket. Why didn’t you just ask your CIA liaison? You know the one. He was slinking around the crime scene and at your offices.”

  “We did,” Artie said. “He didn’t confirm or deny you even exist with the Agency any longer. The DHS guy was enough to spring you. For now.”

  I winked at Victoria. “If the government says it, it must be true. Right?”

  “Get out of here.” She threw a thumb at the door. “Before I change my mind.”

  I stood and stretched a bit more. “How about an update? You know, between federal colleagues.”

  Victoria held up a hand. “We have no comment, okay?”

  “Following every lead. Right, blah, blah, blah,” I said. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

  Artie nodded. “This whole thing is one dead end. We’re not getting anywhere on Kevin’s killing. A stolen truck that led nowhere. No evidence, no nothing.”

  Liars. I decided to test the waters a little deeper. “Well, then tell me who Saeed Mansouri is.”

  Artie looked like I’d just insulted his mother and kicked his dog. Victoria didn’t look amused, either, and locked her eyes on me. “Where’d you hear about him, Hunter?”

  “What do you have on him?”

  Her face was impassive. “No comment.”

  “Saeed Mansouri is on our radar, Hunter,” Artie said, trying to appease me a little. “But everything about him is classified. I’m sure you understand.”

  “No, I don’t.” I went to the door and turne
d around. “How can I understand if you don’t tell me anything? How about Caine and Khalifah? Or what about Maya and Baltimore? If you don’t share, I can’t help.”

  Nothing.

  “All right, I’ll drive up to Sand Town and dig around.”

  Artie and Victoria did the FBI telepathy thing. It lasted several moments before they reached a decision.

  Victoria said, “Stay clear of Sandy Creek. We’re handling them. We’re not at liberty to disclose what we’ve got, including Khalifah, Caine, and Saeed Mansouri. So, hands off Sandy Creek.”

  “Hands off?” I frowned. “Well then, being as I’ll be getting my intel from DHS and CIA, the FBI won’t be in my loop. Too bad, too. Because we’re smarter together than alone.”

  Artie suddenly thought better. “Okay, okay, look, Hunter—”

  “Forget it, Artie,” I said on my way to the door. “I gotta bury my brother. First, though, I’m gonna pick up my .45 and rental car out front. Unless, of course, you’ve found a photograph of me and John Wilkes Booth having lunch. But I warn you, I have an alibi for that one, too.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Day 4: May 18, 1500 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Mount Hebron Cemetery, Winchester, Virginia

  WITH DEATH, DYING isn’t always the worst thing. It’s the funeral. The living must go on. Memories. Sadness. Good-bye. No matter how supportive everyone is, no matter their condolences, nothing helps. There’s just emptiness and loss. Someone is gone. Nothing changes that. You must make your way through the well-wishers, prayers, psalms, and the cemetery. Each step is heavy and difficult.

  You cannot wait for it to end. Then, you hate when it does.

  Finality.

  Kevin’s service was no different. Except the well-wishers were mostly strangers. When a cop is killed in the line, the ceremony gathers everyone—friends, family, cops, politicians, strangers, and townsfolk. Everyone wanted to show their support. Everyone felt the loss. Yet no one shared it.

  Before graveside, my grief had passed. Revenge nestled in its wake. I still felt sadness and loss. But oddly, it didn’t consume me. Still, there was emptiness. Pain. Thankfully, I was in control. Perhaps it was our fifteen years of silence. We’d become strangers. Perhaps it was anger and shock. Whatever it was, I was calm and removed.