“And now that you’re back and Tuttle is behind bars,” said Alton, “you’ll continue your research?”
“Yes,” said Summit. “At least, as soon as I hire a good allergist to treat my asthma. Have any recommendations?”
CHAPTER 80
Alton and Mallory found themselves back in the same NSA headquarters briefing room in which they had first met their mission teammates. They sat in a pair of soft, leather chairs and waited for Ernesto Vega.
The senior agent entered, exchanged greetings with the Blackwells, and took a seat across the table.
“How is Agent Delaney?” asked Alton. “When you said you’d fill us in when we got here, I worried she’d taken a turn for the worse.”
“Sorry if I gave the wrong impression about her,” said Vega. “Actually, she’s finally starting to improve.”
“What’s her current status, exactly?” asked Mallory.
“She’s regained consciousness. She’ll likely spend another week or two in the hospital, then switch over to home-based rehab. She doesn’t remember much about the attack itself, just remembers heading out for her morning walk and something painful happening.”
“Perhaps that’s for the best. Who wants to remember that kind of trauma?” said Alton, recalling the death and destruction he had witnessed during his tour of duty in Afghanistan.
“Indeed,” said Vega. “Speaking of remembering…let’s talk about one of the reasons I asked you here. I’ve been left out of the loop the last forty-eight hours. Don’t get me wrong…I understand why. You had a case to solve. I know it’s tedious, but now I need a full debriefing from both of you.”
“No worries,” said Alton with a smile and a glance at his wife. “We were both in the Army. We know the drill. But I have to admit, I’m a little surprised the Gooch isn’t here.”
Vega chuckled. “He requested leave right after you all cracked the case—said something about deep-sea fishing. Anyhow, the case is closed, so getting a statement from the two of you is sufficient.”
Alton and Mallory spent nearly an hour describing the events of the last two days, stopping often to answer Vega’s questions.
At the end of the session, Vega made a final scribble in a small notebook and looked up. “I still can’t believe you sniffed out Hank Tuttle.”
“I nearly didn’t,” replied Alton.
“I don’t judge the path you take. I judge the destination you reach. And your destination was spot on.” He paused. “This touches on the second reason I brought you down here. This case supplied the last confirmation I needed about you.”
“What do you mean?”
Vega hesitated again, as if gathering his thoughts. “The three of us worked together in Italy on the Vidulum case, albeit in a strange manner. At the time, I was impressed with your analytical and improvisation skills. Since then, I’ve done a little more checking and discovered a few other high-profile investigations you were involved in—the Rabinil case, for example. You seem to have a knack for ferreting out the truth.”
Alton acknowledged the compliment with a nod.
Vega continued. “I’ll cut to the chase. I’d like you to work as an NSA special consultant.”
After an initial rush of surprise, Alton stopped to consider his career at Kruptos and the life with Mallory he had worked so hard to build. “Sorry, but I’m not interested.”
“That’s what makes you perfect for the job,” said Vega. “You’re not on a power trip, and you’re not trying to move up the ladder by proving you’re some kind of super-agent. You go in and get the job done. Period.”
Mallory looked at Alton with wide eyes but said nothing.
“What about my leg?” asked Alton, still feeling a little disoriented from the offer. “Wouldn’t that disqualify me?”
“No. I can see you keep yourself fit, but in your case, we’re not asking you to join us for your brawn. We have plenty of other people for that. We need your intellect and technical expertise. So in a way, your bum leg is actually an advantage. Who would suspect you of working for the NSA? Like you, our enemies would assume you’d be disqualified from the role.”
Alton shook his head as if to clear it. “Let me think about it.”
“Of course,” said Vega. “And Mr. Blackwell, while you’re thinking, consider this. You want what’s best for our country, right? So do we.”
His mind churning, Alton spoke in a quiet voice. “I don’t want to quit Kruptos. I’ve worked my whole life to qualify for the kind of work I’m doing there.”
“We don’t want you to leave Kruptos, either.” Vega rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “The wars of the future aren’t going to be waged with bullets and missiles—at least those won’t be the only weapons. They’ll be cyber-wars, conflicts involving sensitive information and computer viruses and tactical programs. We need someone with a cutting-edge knowledge of cyber-warfare on our team. You’ll lose your edge if you leave Kruptos.”
“If I’m still employed by Kruptos, how would I be able to work for you, too?” asked Alton.
“You’ll keep working your normal job. When the need arises for a man of your capabilities, you’ll take a ‘vacation’ from work…at least as far as your colleagues are concerned. As you can see, you wouldn’t be a full-time NSA employee. Your role would be pretty much the same as the one you had on this case, only you’d have the full authority of the NSA behind you. Now, I must be straightforward: your primary role would be cyber-intelligence, but I can’t promise you’d never get mixed up in actual combat.”
Alton drummed his fingers on the dark walnut surface of the room’s massive table. After Afghanistan, he was no stranger to the art of war. “I’d have to clear the arrangement with Jake Hines, my CEO.”
“We already have,” said Vega with a knowing smile.
“He agreed?” asked Alton, a little surprised.
“Yes. He was happy he wasn’t going to lose you altogether.”
“I’d have the right to refuse any project, correct?”
“As long as you don’t tell anyone else about it,” said Vega. “We can’t have another Snowden.”
Alton nodded. “I can live with that.” He turned to Mallory. “You’ve been awfully quiet. What do you think?”
She pursed her eyebrows in thought. “Sweetie, I’ve seen you in action. I know you would excel in this kind of role. I also know how important it is to you to believe in what you’re doing. Would you feel that kind of passion if you took this job? That’s a question only you can answer.”
“Would you want to do it, too?” asked Alton. “I can’t see myself taking it on solo.”
“Mr. Blackwell,” said Vega, “I hadn’t extended the offer to your wife.”
“In that case—” began Alton.
“But I have now,” finished Vega, before Alton could refuse. “I was afraid you two would turn me down flat if I made a simultaneous offer, but I can see now I misjudged. My best-case scenario is to hire you both, under the same conditions. You’d both work your regular jobs but be ready to step in for targeted assignments.” He smiled. “You may recall at the beginning of this case, I mentioned how the two of you seem to work well as a team—exceptionally well, in fact. This Galapagos case proves it.”
Alton looked at his wife, and the slightest hint of a smile stole across his face. She smiled back. Alton knew as long as Mallory was with him, he was game for anything. But he wanted to ensure Mallory shared his inclination to begin this new chapter in their lives. “Agent Vega, this is a really generous offer, and I’d like to give it the thought it deserves. Can I call you back in a day or two?”
“Certainly. I’d have been surprised if an analytical guy like you accepted right away,” said Vega, grinning. “Take all the time you need to think it over.” His grin expanded into a full-blown smile. “But I have a feeling I know what you’re going to say.”
CHAPTER 81
Alton carried two mugs of coffee over to the couch in the cond
o he shared with his wife. He handed Mallory’s down to her and set his on the end table so he could lower himself next to her. They sat together, close and content.
Their recent departure from the Galapagos Islands drifted into Alton’s mind. He remembered studying the expanding vista of Santa Cruz Island as the 757 had ascended into the atmosphere. The fertile terrain had looked so peaceful from 20,000 feet. Maybe he’d return to the islands again one day, simply as a tourist, when the memories of death and intrigue had faded.
Mallory broke his train of thought. “So was Vega surprised when you told him we accepted his offer?”
“No, the goober,” he replied with a laugh. “I think the moment he asked, he knew darn well we’d take him up on it. This new job pushes too many of the right buttons for us to say ‘no’.”
Mallory laughed too, then blew on her java to cool it off. “I think you’re right about Vega. He has us pegged.”
Alton leaned towards his wife. “Can you see yourself happy doing this new work? It’s going to be a change for us. I don’t want you to do this just for me.”
Mallory rested her free hand on his. “Hey, I joined the FBI long before I ever even knew you loved me, buddy. If I was willing to work cases on my own, do you think I’d want to turn down the opportunity to work them with my husband?”
“I guess not.” Alton smiled. “Let the next chapter of our lives begin.”
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CHAPTER 1
Cutter Wilson had to die.
But he might not if the Hunter wasn’t careful. Poisoning a person wasn’t child’s play. It took a certain degree of finesse, especially if one wanted the death to appear natural.
Cutter’s good health rendered the job even more challenging. People would question why a physically fit Army officer of only 41 years would drop dead of cardiac arrest. The ME might even perform an autopsy. No evidence of foul play, nothing to contradict such a diagnosis, could be left behind.
A little digging had proved sufficient to identify the perfect opportunity for the poisoning: Fort Bragg’s annual Officer’s Ball. The gala was scheduled for ten days hence, just enough time to make the necessary arrangements.
At first, the Hunter’s plan seemed to hit a snag. Sunset Caterers, the gala’s food supplier, had already staffed up for the event and needed no other workers. The next day, the Hunter had triggered the company’s fire alarm and paid a clandestine visit to its kitchen. Hours later, a sudden outbreak of flu-like symptoms had decimated the caterer’s staff. Desperate for workers, Sunset had called the Hunter, offering a job for the night of the gala only. The Hunter had pretended to object to the temporary arrangement but had at last agreed.
On the night of the ball, the Hunter donned the white dinner jacket and matching cotton gloves of the caterer’s staff. He cut a slit in the index finger of the right glove and slipped three tiny, beige pills into the crack.
He hurried to collect his tray of soup bowls. Holding the tray on his shoulder, he pushed out of the kitchen into the vast ballroom of the Grand Manor Hotel, where a sea of soldiers in dress uniforms and their spouses packed the space.
The Hunter weaved his way among dozens of tables and those few guests had hadn’t already taken a seat. Arriving at his assigned table, he set each soup bowl in front of a guest. On the fourth bowl, he noticed the placard at the next seat read, “Colonel Cutter Wilson.” As the Hunter turned to retrieve the next bowl, his used his thumb to push the three pills into the warm liquid, then placed the bowl in front of the Colonel. Thankfully, the soup was a thick cheddar recipe in which the pills would lie undetectable.
After dispensing the rest of the soup, the Hunter returned to the kitchen. His task was done, but leaving now would draw attention to himself. If an inquiry was made, he wanted no indications of unusual behavior on his part that a curious investigator might ponder. So he continued to serve the rest of the meal.
At last, after three long hours of serving the banquet and retrieving loads of dirty dishes, the event ended. The Hunter collected his meager pay and stripped off the caterer’s jacket. He placed it in the caterer’s laundry machine himself, mindful of the importance of eliminating all traces of his DNA from the garment. He kept the gloves, which he would later toss in a dumpster behind a bar.
Now to wait. The pills’ tough outer shells would keep them from dissolving for another five hours. Once they did, though, nothing could save Wilson. The pills were a custom blend: the first active layer contained a heavy dose of the barbiturates he used most nights as a sleep aid, while the second layer contained a massive dose of digitalis to force cardiac arrest. The medicines would run their deadly course before Wilson was scheduled to awake. To all observers, he would appear to have died in his sleep—tragic, but not inexplicable, especially considering the military ball’s liberal alcohol policy and the extra sleep-aid Wilson would have appeared to consume.
Three hours later, the Hunter leaned back in a first-class seat of a 757 streaking over the Atlantic Ocean. He stirred his drink and checked his watch. Cutter Wilson had two hours to live.
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Book 1: Nefarious
Book 2: Ruthless
Book 3: T Wave
Book 4: Havoc
Book 5: The Devil’s Due
Book 6: The Evolution of Evil
Book 7: Bloodline (Coming later in 2015. See below for notification when available.)
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author Steve Freeman is a former member of the US Army's Signal Corps, a twenty-seven year employee of a large American technology company, and an avid traveler who has visited five continents. The novels of The Blackwell Files draw from his firsthand knowledge of military service, the tech industry, and the diverse cultures of our world.
He currently lives near Atlanta, Georgia with his wife, daughter, and three dogs.
Visit www.SteveFreemanWriter.com for a complete list of his titles.
The Evolution of Evil (The Blackwell Files Book 6) Page 30
