Chasing the Son

by Bob Mayer

  “Not very tactical, Dave,” the woman said. “Walking up on someone who has the sun at their back. I thought the green beanies trained you better.”

  “Kate?” Riley said, not quite believing it. “Kate Westland?”

  “Well, at least you remember my name,” she said.

  Riley’s next action surprised even him. He shoved the pistol back into its holster and threw his arms wide, as he came up and wrapped them around her, lifting her off the deck and twirling her around.

  “Whoa, cowboy,” Westland said. “I know it’s been a while.” But the smile on her face betrayed her true emotions.

  Riley put her down and took a step back. “You haven’t changed a bit!”

  “Oh bullshit, Dave. Look at you. Less hair, bit of a beer belly, moving slower.”

  “Silver hair, wrinkles on your face, and your chest seems flatter than I remember,” Riley said. But now he could see there was a dark streak in her hair, running right down the center, pitch black, most unusual.

  They both laughed.

  “Geez,” Riley said. “How long has it been?”

  “Twenty-four years,” Kate Westland said. “Not that I’ve been counting. I’ve been busy. And you have too, I hear.”

  That set off a little alarm bell in Riley’s head. He pointed at the table. “Take a seat.”

  Westland took one of the chairs and Riley sat across from her.

  Before he could speak again, she held up her hand. “What am I doing here? Especially now? Right?”

  Riley nodded.

  “I retired from the Agency six months ago,” Westland said. “I’m not on official business. I got a call from a guy named Cardena—“

  “Oh, crap,” Riley said. He’d done a mission early in his Army career with Westland, when she was the liaison officer the CIA sent to work with his A-Team. She’d been a South America area specialist. They’d worked together, and ended up fighting together, as they took down a Colombian drug cartel; and faced betrayal from their own side. It was Riley’s introduction into the dark world of double-and triple-crosses.

  He didn’t miss it.

  Westland smiled. “Yeah, he’s the fucking Prince of Darkness of the covert world. I’ve had a few dealings with him over the years. But he’s been reliable and his intelligence is always accurate. Let’s be glad he’s on our side. He called me yesterday. Told me you were involved in some dangerous things here. That’s it.”

  “’That’s it’?” Riley shook his head. “Hell the bad thing was over a couple of days ago.”

  “Apparently not,” Westland said.

  “That’s not good,” Riley said. “He didn’t tell you what the bad thing was, did he?”

  “Nope.”

  “But you came.”

  “I did indeed.”

  “Why?”

  “I was bored,” Westland said. “We work all those years for retirement, then it comes, and it’s like, what the hell?” She laughed and shook her head. “I came because he told me you needed help.” She leaned forward and reached across the table to take his hand. “Really, I came to see you.” She looked down at his hand. “By the way, you didn’t get married on me or start playing for the other side or any of that in the last twenty-four years did you?”

  “Not that I recall,” Riley said.

  “Well okay,” the former CIA agent said. “Cardena did tell me some things. He said you took down Karralkov.”

  “We did. But Cardena brought in the Predator that fired the Hellfire which finished him off.”

  She nodded. “Karralkov had some ties in South America and his name came across my desk a number of times. The world is a better place without him.”

  “Okay,” Riley said. “And?”

  “And Cardena said there was a woman named Sarah Briggs who was trouble.”

  “She was,” Riley said. “And is. I should have killed her when I had the chance.”

  “If we killed everyone when we had the chance,” Westland said, “the world would be shorter a lot of bad people and our consciences would be a lot heavier.”

  “So Cardena wanted you to come here for a reason,” Riley said. “I assume it has to do with Briggs? Because he told Chase—do you know Horace Chase?”

  “Never made his acquaintance, but Cardena said he’s the one that dragged you out of the comfort of your retirement and got you involved in all this.”

  “Wasn’t much of a drag,” Riley said. “Like you, I was pretty bored. Anyway, Cardena told Chase, and I quote somewhat: that he didn’t have a dog in this hunt. Since he sent you here, then he’s most definitely got a dog in this.”

  “Are you calling me a dog?” she asked, with a smile.

  “Absolutely not,” Riley said.

  “Cardena is known to misrepresent himself when it’s to his advantage,” Westland said.

  “What a surprise.”

  “Tell me what the hunt is?” Westland asked. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” she added with a smile.

  Riley quickly updated her on the quest for Chase’s son, starting with searching for Sarah Briggs invented son and ending with the current situation. When he was done, Westland sat silent for a few moments, processing it all.

  “You turn,” Riley said. He could see a speck approaching from the south, coming up the Intracoastal and from the large bow wake, he had a feeling it was the Fina, with Kono running the engines wide-open. Darkness was settling over the low country and the sunset across the Intracoastal was breath-taking, a blaze of red, partly obscured by long clouds.

  “Two things,” Westland said, following his glance. “Cardena was stingy with information but he did give me something, which helps explain why he called me. First, Sarah Briggs isn’t her real name.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Westland said. “Cardena wasn’t specific, but I get the feeling her fingers are in a lot of pies in the shadow world. While some of those she ripped off might be after her, she’s got some powerful friends who might take her in or give her cover.”

  “All right,” Riley said, regretting once again not taking the shot; or at least letting Gator do the job. He doubted very much that Gator’s conscience, if he had one, would be weighed down too heavily by the act. He’d yet to show any remorse over shooting Erin Brannigan.

  “Second,” Westland continued, “there’s some sort of land deal going on with Daufuskie Island. And for some reason, Cardena gives a shit about it.”

  “You don’t know why?” Riley asked. It was definitely the Fina, Kono arcing the patrol boat in toward the dock. Chase and Gator were flanking Kono on the bridge.

  “Not exactly,” Westland said. “I do have something of interest, but maybe it better wait until I can brief everyone.”

  “Roger that,” Riley said. “One quick question though. Who exactly is Cardena and who does he work for? Like Dylan sings, we all gotta serve somebody.”

  “He serves a woman named Hannah,” Westland said. Seeing that the name meant nothing to Riley, she amplified. “Hannah runs the Cellar.”

  “Still not ringing a bell,” Riley said.

  “If Cardena is the Prince of Darkness, then he serves Hannah, the Queen of all of the covert world.” The boat was getting closer to the dock. “No one knows much about the Cellar,” Westland said. “But essentially it’s the cops for the covert world. Polices our ranks without ever having to enter a courtroom. Judge, jury and executioner. No one wants to go up against the Cellar. You do and you just vanish from the face of the Earth. It’s been around a long time.”

  “Great,” Riley said as he got up and went down the metal ramp to the floating (sort of) dock. He grabbed the line Gator tossed him and secured the boat.

  “My son’s with Doc Cleary,” Chase said, leading with the headline.

  “That’s good news,” Riley said.

  But Chase was shaking his head. “Not that good. Apparently he was involved in a death up in Charleston and we have no idea where Doc and Harry are
.” Chase looked past him, toward the deck at the top of the ramp. “Who’s the guest?”

  “Kate Westland,” Riley said. “I worked on an op in South America with her a long time ago. CIA, retired.”

  “What’s she doing here?” Chase asked.

  “Cardena sent her to help.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s go inside and get everyone up to speed,” Riley suggested.

  * * *

  Years ago, Horace Chase had been told that an effective sniper was a man who could shoot another human being on nothing but an order and stop; also on order. The stopping is important.

  He’d been told he was one of those people.

  But he wasn’t the only person who’d been told that.

  And the instructor had failed to include half the population, since it also applied to women.

  Across the Intracoastal Waterway, just short of half a mile, the sniper lay on a pile of small shells. The hummock had been built up by generations of birds dropping empty shells, the tide pushing them together in a linear mound. It was an uncomfortable perch, but the sniper had been in worse.

  The sniper moved her scope from Westland, down to Riley and Chase and then Kono and Gator. She knew she couldn’t get them all before they reacted. But the first one would be dead before the sound of the shot crossed the waterway. The second hit at just that instant. Then it would be a race against their reactions.

  The only problem was the sniper’s order was to hold.

  To wait.

  So with darkness settling over the Low Country, she switched from her optics to night vision.

  And waited.

  Chapter Eight

  Thursday Evening

  Doctor Golden had two file folders in her hand as she sat down across the desk from Hannah. The air hummed quietly from the powerful pumps keeping Hannah’s sanctum in a slight over-pressure (to prevent biological or chemical agents infiltrating in). It had a slight odor to it, the result of the multiple filters it passed through before being allowed in.

  Much like the people who made it to her office had to pass through multiple checks.

  Doctor Golden was one of the few who made it all the way in. Tall, with dark hair that she kept pulled tight, she’d begun working with Hannah’s predecessor, Nero, at almost the same time Hannah had.

  Golden came out of the military’s Special Operations Command, SOCOM, where she’d been doing groundbreaking work in profiling. While most people associated profiling with popular fiction and catching serial killers (after the fact), Golden had looked at it another way. She wanted to profile people before they did bad things. And to find certain types of people who might be the right fit for the extremely demanding jobs that filled the field ranks in SOCOM.

  Her basic premise was that some people were genetically pre-disposed to become certain types of people, but for the extremes, there also needed to be an environmental trigger. For the criminals, it was usually abuse as a child by someone who was supposed to love them. For SOCOM, they were trying to adapt the training to exploit critical skills.

  It was all well and good, but ultimately Hannah relied on Golden for personnel assessments.

  Thus the folders.

  “I thought Nero closed out Sarah Briggs’ file,” Hannah said.

  “He did,” Golden said. “I found it in his personal archives. And-“ she hesitated.

  “Go on?”

  “It was never really closed. Since there was no confirmation of Briggs’ death, it’s still open.”

  “I don’t understand,” Hannah said. “If it’s open, then it shouldn’t have been in Nero’s archives. It should be in my records.”

  Golden had nothing to say to that.

  “Summarize,” Hannah finally said.

  “Very intelligent. Very effective. A top-notch agent, trained specifically for assassinations.”

  “How many ops did she carry out before she vanished?”

  “Seven. All with maximum efficiency.”

  “Odd,” Hannah said. “Then why would her unit send her into a blown op?”

  Golden tapped the folder. “That’s not in here.”

  “Please leave it,” Hannah said.

  Golden put the top folder on Hannah’s desk.

  “And Senator Gregory?” Hannah asked.

  Golden shook her head. “This isn’t the Senator’s case file. It’s his son, Preston Gregory.”

  “Go on.”

  “He came on the radar a year and a half ago when he was involved in a death at the Military Institute of South Carolina. I get alerts from the various public and private military academies since their severe environments can be a trigger for certain types of activities.” Golden then relayed the same version of events that Dillon had received in Charleston.

  “Sounds like an accident,” Hannah said when Golden was done. “Why did you start a file?”

  “The Senator is a powerful man,” Golden said. “His son’s desire to be even more powerful. Couple that ambition with a death, and I always find it suspicious.”

  Hannah considered that. “The situation is very dark and deep here. Sarah Briggs’s file in the wrong place. As if Nero was paying special attention to it. And we know his attention was never misplaced. And Preston Gregory being involved in events that are brewing in South Carolina. Keep monitoring.”

  Golden stood up, dismissed.

  “Leave Gregory’s file.”

  * * *

  Dillon took down Jerrod Fabrou in Charleston Library garage the way his platoon would hit a Taliban-controlled village: fast, fierce and ruthless. Stepping out from behind a concrete column, he jabbed the stun gun into Jerrod’s back, then moved back, letting him fall to the ground, saving him from splitting his skull open by sticking out his foot and letting the head bounce off his toes.

  Tucking the stun gun away, Dillon reached down and threw Jerrod over his shoulder, walked five feet to his car and tossed him into the open back of the SUV. He roughly grabbed Jerrod’s arms, pulled them behind his back, and zip-tied them together at the wrists. Then he jabbed a needle into Jerrod’s neck and pushed the plunger. He threw a tarp over the body. Then he slammed the door shut.

  It was done in under eight seconds.

  Dillon looked around. No one to witness and he’d spray-painted over the single security camera that could possibly have gotten worthwhile images.

  Dillon got into the driver’s seat and started the car. He drove out of the garage underneath the library onto Calhoun Street and turned right. He followed Calhoun to a brief right onto Lockwood and then onto 17 South. To his right front, the sun was setting, another day in the Low Country coming to an end, leading to what promised to be an interesting and long night. He crossed the bridge over the Ashley River, leaving Charleston behind.

  He cleared the outskirts of West Ashley and continued until he saw the exit for Edisto Island on the left. He crossed onto the island, then took back roads, certain of his destination, not needing to use the GPS, although he had it on to double-check.

  Always double-check. His platoon sergeant in Afghanistan had insisted on it and it had saved their asses more than once. Dillon had heard about the platoon leader who’d replaced the batteries in his laser designator but forgotten to reboot the system, thus designating his own position for a five-hundred-pound bomb.

  That was bringing in a world of fatal hurt.

  The paved road gave way to gravel, which, after one last turn, gave way to dirt. There were no lights from houses, no sign of civilization, other than the road. Dillon finally braked when he saw the dirt give way to wood. He left the engine running and the lights on, put the SUV in park, and got out. Walking forward, he stepped onto the old bridge. It was in decent shape and crossed a deep tidal cut. Dillon guessed it would hold the weight of his vehicle, but he wasn’t planning on crossing.

  He went back to his vehicle and opened the back. Jerrod was still unconscious from the shot. Dillon checked his watch. He had at least another forty-minutes
with which to work. He quickly got to it.

  Twenty minutes later Jerrod Fabrou was lying on the wooden bridge, near the edge. His hands were still zip-tied behind his back, his feet were also zip-tied together, a black hood covered his head, and, most ominously, a rope was tied around his neck.

  The noose was not done professionally, as a hangman would with the long, stiff knot that would break the neck. This was a simple slipknot, but that would be sufficient. Dillon very much doubted that Jerrod knew how to make a true hangman’s knot.

  He went back to the SUV, turned the lights off, then shut the engine down.

  Then he waited. He’d learned the art of waiting early in his military career and taken it to higher levels by going out with his hunter-killer sniper teams at least once a month while in Afghanistan.

  Snipers knew how to wait.

  Jerrod began to stir. Dillon turned the headlights back on. The creatures of the night were also beginning to stir, insects buzzing about. The strong smell of tidal flats filled the air. Dillon got out and walked over to Jerrod and kicked him, none too gently.

  Jerrod cried out and began to ‘worm’, the movements a trussed-up person made while on the ground and disoriented.

  “Stop moving,” Dillon said.

  Jerrod, of course, in panic mode, ignored the warning. Dillon knelt, putting his knee in the middle of Jerrod’s chest. “Stop moving,” he repeated. This time, with the aid of the knee pinning him to the wooden planks, Jerrod stopped squirming.

  Dillon reached down and whipped the black hood off his head. He stood and backed off slightly.

  Jerrod blinked into the headlights, disoriented. “What? Who are you? Where am I?”

  Dillon was just a black silhouette in the headlights, looming over Jerrod. He held his hand out, turning it to and fro so Jerrod could see what he held between his fingers.

  “Your ring,” Dillon said.

  “What are you doing? What do you want?”

  “Look around,” Dillon said. “This is where you’re going to die if you don’t do what I say. This is the last place you’re ever going to see.”

  Jerrod’s eyes grew wide. “Who are you?”