The Consultant

by TJ O'Connor

  Shepard tapped the earbud in his left ear and whispered, “Ready. Eyes on?”

  The voice responded, “One target inside to your … right. One signature in the rear office on left. No other signatures. Looks like they’re cleaning up.”

  “Confirmed. Go on three.” Shepard stepped in front of the door and removed an electronic lock pick tool the shape of an electric toothbrush from his jacket. He quietly inserted the pick just as the telephone inside rang. He began the countdown. “One, two—” The phone stopped ringing. Three seconds of silence. It began to ring again. Timed to the third ring, Shepard turned the knob and slowly eased the door open, keeping his right hand at his waist with the silenced .22 pistol.

  LaRue followed him through the door and silently closed it behind them.

  They stood in a small reception area adjacent to a hallway that traversed the entire front of the suite. Shepard dropped the raincoat on a chair, lifted the .22 into a two-hand shooting position at eye level, and moved through the hall to the offices in the rear.

  The man standing near the rear window looked up. He panicked and made a dive for a submachine gun lying on the rickety wood table near the office couch.

  He never made it.

  Shepard had readied for a wounding shot—an arm, shoulder, or perhaps a knee. The man’s jerky dive over for the subgun disrupted the shot and the .22 hit him on the left side of his neck and exited through the right. The round shredded the carotid artery and shattered his windpipe. A gush of blood erupted over the floor. The man grasped his throat in a mute spasm for survival, but the end was mere moments away.

  “Dammit.” Shepard kept his weapon poised, but the man made no further attempt to reach the subgun. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Regrettable.” LaRue turned to secure the remaining offices. Before he took one step, the second man emerged from behind them, holding a shotgun. LaRue raised a hand. “No.”

  The crisp crack of the office window did not startle either Shepard or LaRue when it killed the man holding the shotgun. From across the street, the sniper’s bullet struck the man in the left eye and ended his life before his brain perceived the sound of breaking glass.

  Shepard tapped his communication earbud. “Targets down. No joy.”

  “Copy. Standing by.”

  LaRue surveyed the offices. He knew what they would find, but the sight disturbed him nonetheless. He’d anticipated everything, but did not yet understand the implications. That would come in time. But to do so, they needed another prisoner. Another interviewee. Someone higher in the food chain than Grigori Sokoloff. With each rung up the ladder, more information could be gleaned. Each step brought them closer to Khalifah. Closer to the source. Looking at the dead assailant lying in the middle of the living room, he knew they needed to climb the ladder much faster. Each step took time. Time he did not have.

  There were two other bodies in the room besides the two dead assailants. Both were bound and gagged. Each was dressed casually, taken that morning before their workday began. The older of them, a woman of perhaps fifty, lay on her side on the couch. Her eyes were wide saucers at having witnessed her fate unfold. The second body was a young woman whose resemblance to the older woman was unquestionable. She was twenty-five at best and she sat at the desk facing the older woman. LaRue knew they were mother and daughter. Not simply from the maternal resemblance, but from the file Shepard provided him on the drive there. Kazan Limited was owned by Sahar and Sadik Samaan—refugees who built a business of foreign imports even before fleeing Afghanistan and seeking refuge in the United States during the worst years of that war. Sahar’s mother, Amtullah Nasry, was also a Syrian refugee. Hours earlier, Sadik murdered hundreds at Union Station. Now, Sahar and Amtullah stared blindly at their office ceiling. Both women’s throats were severed almost in two. The knife had been large and the killer strong, succinct, and skilled. Blood soaked their clothes and pooled on their laps—after the strike, their hearts continued to pump blood for life-draining seconds before their brains bade them stop and succumb to death.

  “I don’t understand, sir,” Shepard said. “Sadik carried out the Union Station attack for them. Why would they still kill the family? This is just like the mall.”

  “Why indeed?”

  Shepard moved to the dead man. He examined his pockets and found nothing. But when he rolled him over, he studied his Persian features. “Iranian, I believe.”

  LaRue went to the desk and closed Sahar’s eyes in a slow, reverent gesture. “Yes. Illegally here, no doubt.”

  Shepard checked the second assailant. “Him, too, sir. A few minutes alone with one of them might have helped.”

  “No, I think not.” LaRue took a long breath. “We need another. Not a soldier. We need a captain. We must reach the top more quickly.”

  “How about a general, sir?”

  LaRue walked to the large office windows, pulled shards of broken glass from the frame, and gave a wave to the sniper across the street. He walked around the room to a credenza with photographs of the young Sahar Samaan and her husband, Sadik. He picked up the photo, removed it from the frame, and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

  “If you can bring me a general,” LaRue said, “our task might be done. But I think not.”

  “No, sir, I don’t suppose so.”

  “We must stay the course. We will work up their chain of command until we have the right one. When we do, it will all fall into place. But we must advance soon.”

  “That will take time, sir,” Shepard said, snapping cell phone photographs of the assailants. “There could be more like this.”

  LaRue removed his eyeglasses for a polishing. “Ah, there will be, Shepard. There will be.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Day 4: May 18, 2055 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Noor Mallory’s Residence, Winchester, Virginia

  IT WAS JUST before nine p.m. when Noor walked me to her front door. I bade her lock up and keep her gun close. As I reached for the door, she took my arm and moved in close. For a moment, I thought she would kiss me, but instead she dropped her eyes to the floor.

  “I wish you to understand. Kevin and I, well, he ended our marriage very long ago. We stayed for Sam. There was nothing else. There hasn’t been anything else.”

  I said nothing.

  “I hear him in your voice. I see his eyes in yours.” She turned away. “But that is all. You and he are so different. You have talked to me more since you have returned than he has in a year. You are daring and adventurous. He was not. Yes, he was a brave man to do what he did. But his heart was not yours.”

  “Noor, why are you telling me this?”

  She opened the door and refused to look at me. “I do not wish you to think me a bad wife.”

  “I don’t think that.” I checked my watch. Time to go. Thank God. “We’ll talk more when I get back. Lock up.”

  I couldn’t get Noor’s parting words out of my head on the drive into town. What had she done? Something with Bond? Was she warming too much to me? That couldn’t be. No, she was family and any thought of that was just—uncomfortable. She had something else on her mind. Something that evaded me.

  Twenty-five minutes later, I pulled into the Valley Road House parking lot along Interstate 81 just south of town where it shared the lot with my hotel. When I ambled in—tough guys amble—I was at home. The aroma of sizzling beef and spilled beer hung in the air. Laughter. Clinking glasses. Loud jukebox music. My anguish disappeared when the bosomy waitress winked at me and asked me to meet her after closing.

  No, that didn’t really happen, but it could have. Really.

  Artie was nowhere to be found, so I went back outside to my car to check in with LaRue when I saw Artie park and walk across the lot toward the bar. I was just climbing out of my car to hail him when an old beat-up Nissan rolled in and parked near Artie’s car. The dome light came on and I spotted my old pal Fariq, the knife-wielding, bad-attitude thug who’d stalked Bobby Kruppa. There was at least one
other person in the car, and I was betting that was Azar.

  Now, what were they doing on Artie’s heals?

  From the distance, it was hard to tell what they were up to, but a moment later, the car started and they began trolling the lot. I ducked down just in time when they passed me. A few seconds later, they made another pass.

  This was an opportunity to follow him. Maybe I’d get lucky and he’d lead me to Khalifah or Caine. How fun would that be?

  For a second I considered grabbing Artie, but there was no time. Instead, I sent him a fast text, updated him, and promised to call as soon as I found out where they were going. A moment before the Nissan left the lot for the highway, he replied, “Hunter, I’m bringing Victoria in on this. We’ll be ready in ten minutes. Send your location. No action without us.”

  The Nissan was already at the light out in front of the bar, and I would lose them if I didn’t move fast. In a second I’d started the rental, pulled across the lot with my lights off to not draw attention, and fell into place three cars behind the Nissan.

  Traffic was light and I had to give the Nissan extra space so as not to tip my hand. The Nissan jumped the traffic light and accelerated onto the ramp for Interstate 81 south out of Winchester. As I reached the last Winchester exit, I grabbed my cell phone and called LaRue. If there was anyone who could send the cavalry in time, it was him. He answered on the second ring. In a minute, I’d explained what I was doing and he didn’t disappoint.

  “All right, Hunter. Keep him in your sights. I’ve locked the UAV onto your GPS. It’ll be on station in ten. Shepard in fifteen.”

  “You have your own UAV?”

  “I want him alive, Jon. No gunfights.”

  He sounded more and more like Artie Polo all the time. “Sure, sure. I gotta call Artie.”

  “No, you will not.” It was not a suggestion. “You are to take Fariq alone. No outsiders.”

  Dammit, Artie and Victoria were only moments behind me. “Okay, Oscar. Then Shepard better be here faster. I’m not waiting.” I tapped off the call.

  The Nissan slowed a bit and kept its speed at sixty-five. After another two miles, they took the next exit and headed north toward the mountains.

  I checked my watch. Ten minutes had passed. LaRue’s eye-inthe-sky should be on station—that is, overhead.

  My cell phone rang. It was Victoria, and I ignored it and put it on vibrate. Better silence than a lie. If I lied, she’d see through it in no time. Explaining how I was about to kidnap a possible federal suspect would be touchy with all that procedure and rights and complications. Hell, they stole my $879,928.66 under the Patriot Act, so I can snatch one or two terrorists without reading them their rights.

  I shortened the distance to the Nissan just as they rolled off the road into an abandoned gas station that was dark and empty. Hoping Shepard was close by and the UAV was overhead tracking me, I passed the Nissan sitting idle in the lot and continued another quarter mile down the road until I found a place to pull off and hide my car.

  After checking my .45 twice, I headed toward the gas station on foot.

  The area around the abandoned gas station was wooded, and I managed to jog to within a few hundred yards without worry. Closing the distance, my breath came a little faster and my heart started to rumba with anticipation. Somewhere ahead were at least two men. One was Fariq and the other probably Azar. Both were assuredly killers. There were two reasons the Nissan stopped at the empty gas station. One, they were checking for a tail and might be on to me. And two, they were already on to me and were setting a trap.

  Both scenarios ended badly for someone. The key now was not to be that someone.

  I knelt behind a stand of scrub trees and surveyed the gas station lot. The Nissan was still parked in the front lot near the ancient gas pumps, motor running. The interior was dark and I couldn’t see inside. I had no idea if Fariq and his pal were still there. My eyes were adjusted to the darkness and I carefully scanned the area looking for any telltale movement or hidden dangers.

  Nothing.

  Although I knew I’d probably never see it, I glanced skyward, hoping LaRue’s UAV was somewhere above. Hope is never a strategy, so with my .45 out, I inched from the trees to the rear of the garage lot. The back area was a junkyard. There were skeletons of old cars and stacks of rusted engine parts, acetylene cylinders, and machine junk. There was a back door to the shop at the rear of the garage. Near the side of the door, about three feet from the rear wall, was a large, steel-framed tank that stood five feet tall and as wide, once used for kerosene or discarded engine oil.

  There were dozens of places to ambush someone from all directions. Any one of them would allow an assailant to hide and wait for his prey before easily gunning him down.

  Fariq and his pal were, of course, the assailants. I was the prey.

  No choice.

  Keeping low, I jogged to the side of the lot and found a spot behind a hefty stack of metal junk and took cover. Once there, I crawled to an old Ford sedan that had no doors or engine but provided me some concealment from the yard.

  So far so good.

  Peering around the sides of the Ford gave me a good view of the side of the garage. Unfortunately, I had no view beyond the piles of junk and debris surrounding me.

  Time to move.

  I slipped around the rear of the Ford and crawled to an old station wagon skeleton in worse shape than the Ford. From there, I continued to a stack of rusted engine blocks ten feet closer to the garage.

  Creaking metal ahead sent me diving onto my face for cover.

  No bullets flew.

  Just as I rose to one knee to move again, my cell phone vibrated in my jeans pocket and scared me to death. LaRue. I knelt behind some junk and read his text. “Tweety has no heat signatures on the perimeter. Two at the sedan. Many blind spots. Proceed.”

  The UAV was on station.

  My breath eased a bit and I stood. A few deep breaths and my heart rate hummed along as I readied myself to move around the building and take Fariq and his pal at their car. I sprinted to the corner of the garage, slipped along the rear wall, and approached the front corner.

  A low murmur of voices grew louder with each step.

  Ice seized my spine. LaRue was wrong. There should have been three heat signatures.

  The air exploded with automatic weapons fire behind me. The bullets riddled the wall chest high, chattering toward me. Had I not heard the creek of metal behind me and turned in time to see the muzzle flash, I’d be dead.

  With the first flash, I dropped facedown, rolled sideways, and snapped off three shots at the shooter. He’d obviously been concealed somewhere in the junk pile secreted from LaRue’s UAV.

  Concrete fragments peppered me and one stung deep into my neck. The perp’s subgun chewed up concrete and earth and headed directly for me. I rolled away from the garage wall just in time before the spray of bullets chattered the ground where I’d been.

  Running feet.

  The two men at the Nissan were joining the ambush. The shooter angled behind me.

  I was caught in a lead trap and the trap was closing fast.

  Pulling my cell phone from my jeans, I tapped the speed button for LaRue, hit speaker, and tossed the phone a dozen feet away near a stack of old tires. The screen lit up just as it began to ring.

  I rolled onto my back with my feet toward the front of the garage and tried to calm the adrenaline gurgling in my veins.

  LaRue answered the second the two men appeared around the front corner of the garage.

  “Hunter?” LaRue’s voice boomed. “Hunter?”

  Both men opened up with subguns at my phone and pressed forward, closing the distance to what they thought was me. They fired rapidly and dead on target.

  Wrong target.

  I fired four shots the moment they cleared the edge of the garage.

  Both went down and cried out. One tried to fire again, this time at my position, and I sent two more rounds into them.
/>
  Silence.

  My arms thrust my .45 backward over my head toward the rear yard. The first assailant ran toward me, cleared the corner of the building, and fired at the tires, too.

  Rule three of mortal combat, pal—never leave cover unless you have to. Never.

  I waited for him to get within a dozen feet of me and fired, aiming low and trying to take him alive. All would be for naught if I handed LaRue three corpses.

  My second and third shots hit home.

  The assailant screamed in agony, faltered, fired another short burst from the subgun, and fell.

  I was on my feet and angled toward him. “Sheleek mekonam! I’ll shoot!” I closed on him, kicked away a Styer subgun, and stood over him—my .45 aimed at his face.

  It was Fariq, and he had a nice bullet hole in his left leg just above the knee.

  “Surrender. We surrender,” he coughed between the agony. “Lawyer. Doctor. This is America. We have rights.”

  Movement behind me. I spun.

  “Hold.” Shepard eased out from the garage corner behind me and moved to Fariq’s men. “One dead. One wounded in the shoulder.”

  Fariq squealed again, “This is America. We have rights. I want a doctor. I want a lawyer.”

  “Sorry, Fariq, I’m all out of doctors and lawyers. How about an old, crusty dude with a bad sense of humor and lots of questions? He’ll give you a Band-Aid.”

  Shepard knelt beside the wounded assailant and tended to his shoulder. “Christ, Hunter, the old man said no gunfights.”

  “They started it.” I kicked Fariq’s wounded leg. “Tell him, Fariq. Tell him you started it.”

  Fariq said nothing.

  I turned to Shepard. “What did he expect?”

  “The UAV’s been recording. He saw it all.”

  He didn’t see the third assailant. “Does this mean I’ll get some of my $879,928.66 back now?”

  CHAPTER 48

  Day 5: May 19, 0630 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Western Loudoun County, Virginia