The Consultant

by TJ O'Connor

  I froze.

  “Okay,” a familiar voice said, “hands on the steering wheel real slow.” Bond’s voice was chilling. His demeanor was calm and steely. “Or not, your choice.”

  “Or not” meant he hoped for a reason to shoot. I obeyed, of course. Not just because he was the law, but because I didn’t want my brains mixing with the dust and bugs on my windshield. Truth be told, Bond scared the hell out of me.

  “Okay, Dave, relax.”

  “Shut up, Hunter. Keep your hands on the steering wheel.” His voice was calm and icy. “With your left hand, reach through the steering wheel and turn off the ignition. Then slowly drop the keys out this window.”

  I did. In fact, I was happy to comply.

  “Now, come out of the vehicle. Slow.” He stepped back from the door. “Open the door from the outside. Hands where I can see them. Move.”

  I did that, too.

  Once on my feet, Bond grabbed my right arm with one hand and kept his pistol on me with his other. He spun me around and slammed me against the car. Twice he kicked at the insides of my legs to spread them wider and wider apart. Any wider and he could make a wish.

  “Freeze.”

  “I got it, Dave.” My groin muscles cried in agony. “Take it easy, will ya? We’re on the same side.”

  “Shut up. Interlace your fingers over your head. Do it.”

  I complied, and he grasped my entwined hands and dragged me back toward the trunk of my car. Once there, he drove two palm-heel thrusts into my back and sent me sprawling over the trunk. “Stay down.”

  I gasped, “Will you relax? What’s this about?”

  Two hard fists slammed into my kidneys and dropped me to my knees. I coughed and gagged for breath. A kick pounded into my side. I gasped again and he grabbed my collar, dragged me back to my feet, and pushed me over the car trunk again. This time, instead of pummeling me, he spun me around and thrust a finger into my chest.

  “I’m taking you in for reckless driving, resisting arrest, and whatever else I can think of on the way.”

  I watched the hate in his eyes boil and decided to mind my manners.

  “You gotta let me go. Dammit, listen to me, Dave. In my right breast pocket, I’ve got DHS creds.”

  “I don’t care.” Bond stepped back and raised his pistol with an icy, dark smile. A Hannibal Lector smile. “Turn around.”

  Time was ticking. I had to get to Bobby but I wouldn’t if I went to jail or if Bond just shot me. My options were zero.

  “Will you listen?” I eased around and lowered my hands behind my back. “Bobby Kruppa is missing from the FBI safe house. I’m headed to meet him now.”

  “Bull.”

  While I expected another beating, Bond snapped the cuffs on me and ratcheted them so tight I winced. He found my .45 holstered behind my back and tugged it out. He dropped the magazine and the chambered round into his hand and laid all of it on the trunk above my head. Next, he grabbed my arms, pulled me off the car, and spun me around again to face him. His transformation from Mr. Hyde to Dr. Jekyll was complete.

  “What about Kruppa?” He pressed into me again and dug around my jacket pocket. When he found my DHS credentials, he read them briefly, laughed, and tossed them onto the trunk beside my pistol. “I’ll add impersonating a federal agent to the charges.”

  “It’s legit. Call Artie or Victoria.”

  He tensed. “What about Kruppa?”

  Thank God, reason was returning. “He called Sam. I’m going to meet him up the road. He’s scared to death. Come with me if you want, but dammit, let’s go.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Come on, Bond. Something’s going on. Your deputy is gone from Noor’s house, too. Call her. Dammit, call Victoria and Artie or Noor. Do something, but get on with it.”

  He watched me and holstered his pistol, leaving his hand resting on it. Without a word, he grabbed me, spun me around, and slammed me over the trunk again. He held the handcuff chain and lifted my arms so high my shoulders threatened to pop off.

  “Stay put. Move and I’ll shoot your sorry ass.”

  He let go and I heard him move to his cruiser. His voice was muffled, but I could tell he was talking to Noor. I did make out, “Call if you need anything. I’ll find Sam.” A second later, he pulled my arms back into the air and the pain shot up through my shoulders. He twisted the handcuffs back and forth and finally removed them. He sent a knee into my thigh that dropped me onto one knee.

  He stepped back.

  “You’re a real bastard.” I rolled my shoulders and straightened myself as I rubbed my wrists and arms. “What did Noor say?”

  “Enough. Sam’s run off again. I’m going over there. You stay clear.”

  “Come with me to find Bobby first.” My voice had a touch of not-so-hidden anger.

  “I’ll do my job. You do whatever you do.”

  He climbed into his cruiser, pulled around my car almost on top of me, and rolled his passenger window down. “You might have been some kind of CIA hotshot, but out here, you’re nothing. You and me are gonna collide real soon, Hunter.”

  He was gone in a cloud of dust and flying gravel.

  CHAPTER 58

  Day 5: May 19, 1315 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  The George Washington Hotel, Winchester, Virginia

  OSCAR LARUE SIPPED his lunchtime Earl Grey and watched the closed-circuit television picture across the room. He’d watched the recording three times since he’d returned to the suite. The large 52-inch TV screen was normally enjoyed by other guests for sports and late-night pornography. Today, however, he was watching reruns of Grigori Sokoloff executing his comrades in his Loudoun countryside safe house. A moment later, the enigmatic Caine dragged Shepard’s body into one of the holding cells. He returned to the basement and tossed Sokoloff something as Sokoloff dressed in his own clothes—stripped of them by his captors and left piled on a chair in the basement. When he was finished, Sokoloff disappeared from the camera’s view up the basement steps.

  LaRue tapped a button on the surveillance system remote and changed the picture to an exterior camera mounted clandestinely across from the farmhouse. The videotape picked Sokoloff up as he emerged from the farmhouse. A few seconds later, Sokoloff sprinted off the porch to a small two-door sedan parked beside the farmhouse, dug in his pocket, and extracted the keys Caine had given him.

  Dirt and gravel flew as Sokoloff made his escape.

  LaRue frowned and picked up his secure satellite phone, dialed a coded number, and waited for it to connect.

  “Sokoloff has escaped our Loudoun facility. He’s left a mess behind. Caine is there now but won’t be for long. Get a team there ASAP. Chopper them in to clean up and secure the facility.”

  The voice on the phone lasted but a few sentences.

  LaRue stood and began to pace. “I have Tweety in the air already. You secure the facility, I’ll worry about Sokoloff.”

  LaRue hung up.

  Seconds later, the aerial feed from Tweety’s UAV camera connected to the GPS mapping software and tracked Sokoloff out of Middleburg.

  Not wanting to let an excellent grilled salmon salad go to waste, LaRue poured a fresh cup of Earl Grey, sat back down, and finished his lunch.

  CHAPTER 59

  Day 5: May 19, 1400 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Darby Farm Road, Frederick County, Virginia

  BOBBY WAS WAITING for me inside the old barn at the Darby Farm.

  He’d been there only a little while. I didn’t recognize him at first. The bullet had entered the rear of his head and had blown a chunk of his face away on exit. Unfortunately, I didn’t need his entire face to know who had occupied that dumpy, disheveled body in its living days.

  “Bobby, who did this?”

  My words fell on ears dead less than an hour. His blood had begun to settle in the lower parts of his body leaving the exposed skin pale and meek. His flesh was cool to the touch. I doubted if young Bobby Kruppa, aspiring journali
st and chess grandmaster, had been executed more than thirty minutes before.

  Emotions tried to seize me. I fought back. If they took over, I was finished. I had caused Bobby’s killing as much as if I’d pulled the trigger myself. Someone powerful and connected had located the FBI safe house. Someone had penetrated either the FBI or the local sheriff. Perhaps both.

  That person—Khalifah, I was sure—was going to die very badly. He’d taken my brother and now the innocent kid who lay dead before me.

  I was going to enjoy killing him.

  * * *

  Caine stood behind some overgrown apple trees two hundred yards from the barn’s open door. He and one of Saeed Mansouri’s most trusted operatives, his senior IRGC lieutenant, had been waiting for Hunter to arrive since Khalifah had killed the young student. Caine had objected. There was more value in his living than his death.

  Khalifah, however, saw the pudgy-faced boy only as bait.

  Now, the lieutenant raised the AK-74 Kalashnikov and started toward the barn.

  “No.” Caine grabbed his arm and restrained him. “We wait.”

  “Wait?” the lieutenant snapped in Persian. “For what? He is our target. We kill him now.”

  “We wait.”

  The lieutenant pulled his arm free, growled some slur Caine did not understand, and started for the barn again. He made it three steps before Caine caught him, swung him around, and dropped him with a violent punch that rocked his head back and took teeth and blood from him.

  It took the lieutenant several moments to recover and stagger to one leg. He glanced down at the Kalashnikov at his feet. “What is this, Caine? What do you do?”

  Caine held a silenced .22 pistol in his hand. “You and that animal, Saeed, are in such a hurry for blood. All of you. You know nothing of tactics. Nothing of quiet progress. You only know blood.”

  The lieutenant spat at Caine and reached for the Kalashnikov. “You are no assassin. You are no soldier. Wait until Saeed and Khalifah hear of this.” He swung the rifle up at Caine’s chest. “You are finished. Many times you have failed the kill. You are no—”

  A nearly inaudible thwack stopped his rant.

  The .22 is a small, delicate round. Its ballistics are easier to silence than most other handgun ammunition. The Israelis mastered it as a perfect close-quarter assassin’s tool. What was good for Mossad was good for Caine.

  Caine’s .22 hit the lieutenant dead center into his heart. The sound might have carried halfway to the barn at best. The lieutenant was stunned and looked down at the gurgle of blood escaping his chest before he realized he was dead.

  When he did, his last words were, “You are no assassin. Allah …”

  “Yes, I am.” Caine put another round into the Iranian’s left eye. “After all, I killed you.”

  CHAPTER 60

  Day 5: May 19, 1545 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Darby Farm Road, Frederick County, Virginia

  “ANOTHER BODY.” BOND shot me a sideways glance. “Not surprising that you’re standing over it.”

  “I didn’t kill Bobby.” I jumped off the FBI sedan’s hood and headed for him, stopping within a good right hook’s range. “You think I broke him away from your protective detail, sneaked him up to this secluded barn, and killed him? Then I called you guys?”

  Bond jammed a finger at me. An angry, hate-filled finger. “Sounds right to me.”

  “When did I do all this, Bond? When I was in Leesburg stopping a terror attack on the school or when I was with Victoria Bacarro afterward?”

  Bond stared as his face reddened.

  “Got any other stupid ideas?”

  Victoria walked out of the barn just as Bond sneered and walked away. I watched, wondering if she’d mind if I put a bullet in the back of his skull and claim temporary insanity.

  Victoria read my mind. “Forget him, Hunter. He’s not worth it.”

  “Just one shot. I’ll do the paperwork.”

  “We found another body nearby.” She turned toward a group of FBI agents moving through the overgrown orchard across the road. “No ID yet, but I’m thinking it’s one of Saeed’s men.”

  “One of his men?” I looked after the FBI team searching the orchard. “I didn’t kill him. So who did?”

  “No guesses. Maybe some kind of internal fight. Who knows? None of this is making any sense.”

  I knew people who could help. “I’m going to call some people at Langley.”

  “No, you’re not,” a husky voice said behind us.

  I turned and saw Mo Nassar standing behind us with Artie Polo. The two came closer, and Nassar aimed a bony finger at me. “You’re a lying son of a bitch, Hunter.”

  Nope, we weren’t going to be best buddies. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. That is, one son of a bitch to another.”

  Artie held up his hand. “This is Special Agent Mo Nassar.”

  “FBI,” Mo added.

  “I’m Homeland Security.” I grinned. “We’re both liars, Mo.”

  “Officially, Hunter,” Artie said, “Agent Nassar is part of the FBI. He’s our liaison with the Agency and on our task force under FBI operational control.”

  I snapped a glance at Victoria. “Mo’s your CIA liaison?”

  “He is,” she said. “He’s been with us for several months now.”

  Something tickled my brain. “Before Kevin joined?”

  Artie shook his head. “No, since this winter. Why?”

  The snippets of Kevin’s moods and behavior struck me. Months ago, he suddenly disliked and distrusted everyone at the task force. That coincidence drew like a magnet to Nassar. It all seemed to congeal around “several months ago” in time for Nassar’s arrival.

  “Why’s the CIA involved in a domestic task force, Mo? I can call you Mo, right?”

  Mo snapped, “Where were you when our safe house was hit and Kruppa disappeared?”

  “Our safe house?” I asked.

  Victoria held up a hand. “He was with me, Mo. After the school attack this morning, I brought him back. His alibi is solid. We were heading for lunch when—”

  “Lunch?” Mo snapped at Victoria. “Who authorized you to go to lunch with him?”

  “Whoa, pal,” I said, stepping toward him. “I’ve been out of the country for a long time, but I’m pretty sure there’s no law prohibiting lunch.”

  Nassar jumped forward and grabbed for my collar, but I shoved him back and off-balance. “Easy, pal. I’m not in the mood.”

  Artie patted the air. “Relax, Mo. I’ll handle Hunter.”

  “Damn right you will.” Mo wagged his finger at me. “You’d better rein him in. There’s too much at stake.”

  “Mo, he’s got Homeland’s backing. How, I have no idea. But it’s legit, more or less.”

  “Less,” Mo snorted. “Langley says he’s out. He’s finished. They ripped up every contract he ever had. He walked off the job.”

  Enough. I stepped forward again and eyeballed Mo like the worm he was. “I didn’t walk off anywhere. In fact, you don’t walk off to anywhere in the desert. A little misunderstanding and everything is just fine now. I’m staying right here.”

  “Screw you, Hunter.”

  “Enough,” Artie yelled and drew stares from the agents working the scene. “Back off, Mo. Now.”

  I shrugged. “Okay, Artie, truce.”

  “Look, Hunter, you screwed up. Face it.”

  “Hold on a minute, Artie.” I looked at him with an edge. “I didn’t screw up anything. Kruppa got word to me, and I came here to find him. I found him dead.”

  “Why didn’t he call us?” Mo said. “Or just 911?”

  “Maybe he didn’t trust you? You were supposed to protect him before, right? How’d that work out?”

  Mo looked at me, then Artie, and back to me. I thought he was going to charge, but he surprised me. “Okay, okay, yes. You’re right.”

  “Let’s all play nice now, boys.” Victoria stepped forward now and grabbed my
arm. “I’m taking Hunter to interview Sam Mallory again.”

  “It is Sameh,” Mo snorted. “Not Sam. Heritage is important.”

  I cocked my head. “Funny, everyone calls you Mo, right? What about heritage? Or are you one of the Three Stooges?”

  That was probably the wrong thing to say.

  Mo’s mouth twisted, and he stewed for a moment. Then he gave me the once-over. “Did anyone check his gun?”

  Artie shook his head. “The body was hit with a .22 cal. Hunter has a .45. We’re still working the scene.”

  “It’s Caine,” I said. “He was trained by Mossad and they’re known for using a twenty-two in close. Even you should know that, Mo.”

  Mo looked at me with a sour face. “You should know.”

  “I do.”

  Artie asked, “Why would Caine kill his own man?”

  “He’s here working with Khalifah and has to babysit the IRGC goons. Maybe he doesn’t like company. Maybe this goon tried something stupid.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Mo snorted.

  I snorted back. “I heard Khalifah isn’t the real threat. There’s someone else. Someone pulling his strings.”

  “Where’d you get that, Hunter?” Artie asked.

  “Edik Petrov.” The name came out before I could stop myself. “He’s a local businessman.”

  “Petrov?” Mo almost came out of his skin. “What are you doing talking to him?”

  “I don’t need permission to talk to him.” Dammit, I never should have given them his name. “Look, he came to me confidentially. Let’s keep it that way.”

  Artie looked at me with sullen eyes. “What did he give you?”

  “Nothing yet. But he will. Soon.”

  Mo wasn’t having that. “Give us everything from him. We’ve tried to get to him for months. He went to you? Bull.”

  “I told you,” I said, grinning to piss him off. “He said Khalifah wasn’t the big boss and then said he’d get back to me. That’s it. No more.”

  Mo drove an angry finger toward me. “You’re lying.”