by Matthew Dunn
“Fuck you!”
Will placed his foot on the back of the man’s head. “You choose. I suffocate you with my foot, or I snap your neck.”
“Okay, okay. There’s no big secret. This is not about you, whoever you are. But I’m not doing this under duress.”
Will wasn’t going to trust the man, though he could see he was a tough operator who wouldn’t crack in this style. He took the man’s handgun, yanked him upright, and released him, before taking three paces back and pointing the handgun at the operative’s head. “Talk!”
“There’ll be no need for that.” The new man’s voice came from behind Will.
Will was certain it was one of the other men he’d met at Fox’s destroyed house, obviously here to take over surveillance duties and armed with a gun pointing right at him.
Will didn’t flinch. In a loud voice he said, “No one wins here. I’m a private investigator, licensed to carry and use firearms.”
“Bullshit!”
“And you’re allegedly cops, though we might have to agree to disagree on that assertion.” Will’s gun arm was motionless, his finger on the trigger, pointing at the sweating operative’s head in front of him. “Why are you watching Elizabeth Haden’s home?”
It was Jason Flail behind him. “None of your damned business.”
“You work for the government?”
Flail placed the muzzle of his handgun against the back of Will’s head. “You’re not in a position to ask questions.”
“I’m in a position where if you shoot me, my finger will pull the trigger. At best I’ll hit your colleague in the chest or belly. At worst I’ll put a bullet in his head before I drop. It’s a bad situation for us all either way.”
Flail circled around Will, maintaining his aim on Cochrane’s head. Face-to-face with Will, he said, “What’s your name?”
Will didn’t blink. “On the ground next to your colleague’s ankles is a long-range camera. Linked to the camera is a cable and cell phone. Your colleague has taken photos of me and uploaded them to someone. That someone will tell you my name.”
“Private investigator?”
“Yes. That is exactly what I am.”
“And your business here?”
“Mundane. Mrs. Haden wants to know if her husband’s having an affair. She’s my client. She wondered if the woman was someone in the CIA. She knew Unwin Fox and thought he might know something. That’s why I was at Fox’s house. I have no idea why it was a burned mess. Clearly, we’re working very different cases.”
Flail glanced at his colleague. Both men were uncertain. Flail lowered his gun. “Let’s part company without drama.”
Will edged away from Flail, keeping his gun pointed at Flail’s colleague. “No drama.”
Flail’s cell phone rang.
It was Howard Kane. “The man in the photos is Will Cochrane! He’s alive! Kill him on sight!”
Flail raised his gun.
But Will pointed his gun at Flail’s head, backed away, and disappeared.
In his office, Kane paced back and forward, staring at the image of Cochrane on his phone. How had this come to pass? Cochrane was supposed to be dead. And he was the last man on earth whom Kane wanted to come back to life.
In Africa, wild dogs are an endangered species. No one really knows why. Specialist bush vets in South and Central Africa try to save them. They keep them in reserves. The problem is the wild dogs don’t recognize humans. People are simply not in their food chain. They can’t be domesticated. You can walk right past them and they won’t give a damn.
That’s Cochrane.
With one exception: he’s evolved to put humans in the food chain.
And he killed the terror financier Otto Raeder in Berlin without blinking. Raeder was like a species that was simply in his way. That’s why Cochrane was chosen for the job. He doesn’t know what humans are, but he’s willing to exterminate them with brutal efficiency.
The fact that Cochrane was alive again changed things dramatically. Kane had a plan to finish what Unwin Fox had started. But Cochrane could blunder into a situation he didn’t comprehend and destroy everything.
Now, Haden had to be held up as the corrupt coward. Due process of law or a bullet in the head would ensure that.
Kane stood still and breathed deeply to calm himself.
He called Jason Flail. “We’re now in a very dark place. Bigger things are in motion. Cochrane is a traitor and murderer. If you see him again, kill him without asking my permission.”
“Are you going to report his sighting to the police?”
Kane considered this. “No. If I did that, Haden would go to ground for good. We have to let him come to us. But don’t let Cochrane get in the way.”
Chapter 18
The eleven-year-old twins Billy and Tom Koenig and their sole guardian, their aunt, Faye Glass, were in witness protection in Virginia, guarded by two detectives.
The Koenigs were the sons of Roger Koenig, a former CIA Special Operations Group paramilitary officer and SEAL Team Six operative who was a colleague of Will Cochrane’s and was the closest thing Will had to a brother. Together, they’d conducted numerous overseas missions, each rescuing the other in trouble spots around the world. It ended when Roger was killed in Beirut. Will tracked down his murderer and shot him.
Justice wasn’t to be had. A year later Will was framed for numerous murders in the States and the abduction of Tom Koenig. This was why he was still on the run.
Faye and the twins were in protection to avoid another abduction attempt by Cochrane. The two detectives guarding them were expert shots and excelled at close-quarter combat as well as thinking. They were renowned for their ability to not only put up defenses, but also gauge the mind-set of their charges. Often in witness protection, the hardest job was anticipating the idiocies of those in harm’s way.
Tonight was like every other night during the last twelve months. Faye had cooked dinner, had put the boys to bed, and was in the kitchen washing dishes. She was a slightly portly forty-year-old who wore clothes that were frequently stitched and unstitched to accommodate weight loss and gain, and had the most beautiful jet-black hair that often was coiled atop her head as if it were a serpent. Faye prepared a pot of coffee and some cookies for the cops.
“I would like you to leave soon. Forever,” she said to the detectives.
One of them answered, “Ma’am, we can only do that once we’re satisfied you’re safe. And that can only happen once our superiors believe there’s no risk that Cochrane’s alive.”
“It’s been a year!”
“I know, ma’am.” The detective touched her hand. “We’ve been in this together throughout.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Faye started getting tearful. “We’re all in prison because of a dead man!”
“Possibly dead.”
Faye wiped tears off her cheeks. “He’s dead. We all know that.” She grabbed a cookie and munched on it. “I should have put more butter in the mix.” Her eyes welled up again as she looked at the cops. “Murderer? Kidnapper? Does your department have any idea who Will Cochrane really is? He is not the man they think he is. But the only reason me and the boys have lived under these conditions for twelve months is because we know one thing—too many people want Cochrane dead; he attracts trouble.”
The nearest detective smiled sympathetically. “Personally, I believe this has all been a waste of your time and our time. I’m pretty certain you’ll be able to take the boys back to your home in Roanoke soon.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“Virginia PD cutbacks. My bosses are having to prioritize expenditure. They’ll review this case and conclude that me and my partner should be working other cases. Are you happy about that?”
Faye nodded. “Will Cochrane wanted nothing more than to be a father to the twins. I think someone set him up for the murders of my aunt and uncle and the police officers. But I also think he couldn’t bear the idea that his reputation ha
d been so catastrophically tarnished. What drove him throughout his career was to do the right thing. But people only remember the last thing about someone. In Will’s case, it was murder of innocents.” She took another cookie. “He killed himself. That’s the end of the matter. Yes, I’d be happy if we could go home.”
The detectives glanced at each other. “The house is all locked up. No one can get in or out. My colleague will help you do the school run tomorrow.”
The detectives withdrew.
Faye walked to the kitchen window and stared at nothing. Outside was only a small plot of land, but it was impossible to see given it was night and there were no exterior lights. Strange, she thought, that she was now fantasizing about seeing Will Cochrane come up to the other side of the window and place his hand on the bulletproof glass. He’d smile at her, she imagined. And she’d smile back because he’d be here to show that he hadn’t forgotten the twins and was checking to see they were safe and well. All she’d have to do was nod at him. Then he’d vanish. But that would be enough. He’d be telling her that he was their guardian from afar.
She bowed her head and felt tears welling up again. How could this have been done to Will, such a good person, a man who was about to start a new life as a father and teacher at the twins’ school? The police had forced her and the boys into witness protection until they had proof that Will was dead. But even if he was alive, Will never posed a threat to her, Billy, and Tom. On the contrary, he was the best thing they could have.
Now their world had been turned upside down. All Billy and Tom had wanted was for Will to adopt them. All Faye had wanted was to relinquish care of the boys to Will’s charge and visit them every week. All Will had wanted was to do a very honorable thing and sacrifice his career for the sake of the youngsters and their fallen father’s memory.
Her tears weren’t helping. They were dwelling on a fantasy that would never happen.
Cochrane was dead.
Tomorrow she’d be escorted to the twins’ school, and after that she’d go to the university where she lectured on mathematics and quantum physics. She came from an academic family, her uncle and aunt both having been university professors. Will was alleged to have killed them both. He didn’t and wouldn’t have.
She wiped away her tears and sighed. She had to be strong for the boys. Trouble was, two years ago her sister, Roger Koenig’s wife, was brutally murdered in her house. Shortly thereafter, Roger was killed in Lebanon. It left the twins bereft of immediate family. And it left Faye suffering from PTSD because of her loss. But despite the gargantuan effort required, Faye’s aging uncle and aunt—Robert and Celia—had rallied to provide a home for the twins, while Faye was too enveloped with grief to help. Eventually she overcame the grief and stepped up to the plate to care for the boys after her uncle and aunt were murdered.
But look where it left her now.
In witness protection.
Alone.
On a university lecturer’s salary that barely paid off her overdraft on payday.
Her childhood sweetheart, a beautiful man called Brian, was allowed to visit her only on Wednesdays, because of Virginia PD rules that anyone over the age of forty would be blocked from her until questioned. Brian had been cleared by the police. But he was the only one, aside from her work colleagues.
She was constantly under police surveillance.
She was impoverished and in prison.
More important, the twins were too.
It would be wonderful if the detectives guarding her were right, that she could return home to Roanoke. Every day in the last year she’d imagined reentering her home and raising the boys. Brian, she knew, would want to be by her side. He was such a good man; not as clever as her but my goodness he had skills she didn’t have, such as knowing how to repair a house and selecting produce from their local supermarket that could feed a family on forty dollars a week.
Brian had proposed to Faye last Wednesday and she’d gleefully accepted.
Trouble was, he was unemployed, having been fired from the construction firm he worked for. He was a fighter and a skilled artisan. He’d get work soon. But that didn’t help Faye’s bank account troubles right now.
It wasn’t Brian’s fault, her fault, or Cochrane’s fault. It was the fault of life itself.
She forced herself to think of other matters: stripping the twins’ beds tomorrow after work, washing clothes, what to have for dinner, whether the nice detectives guarding her had an opinion on what movie they’d like to watch tomorrow evening.
This was her life.
Today was Monday.
Two more days until she was allowed to see Brian.
But even then, what would they do? Between them they barely had enough money to buy a burger, let alone a fancy lunch.
She turned and walked back to the kitchen block and her plate of cookies.
She frowned.
On the plate was a beautiful red rose and an envelope that had the word “Faye” written on it.
It wasn’t there a moment ago.
She wondered if it was from one of the detectives. Heaven forbid one of them had taken a shine to her. She was loyal to Brian, though she understood that close confinement over twelve months could produce confusing emotions. No, she’d detected no such boyish advances from the detectives. They’d always been thoroughly professional and had spoken with affection about their wives and children. Should she call the detectives in to look at the envelope? Maybe inside was something nasty.
She was confused but made a decision.
She ripped open the envelope.
Inside was fifty thousand dollars and a note.
Dear Faye,
I’m so sorry I couldn’t reach out to you before. Things have changed. I’ve been spotted. But during the last year I have been checking up on you to make sure you’re all fine. The two detectives protecting you seem like good men. That’s been reassuring to me. The money enclosed is all I can afford at present. I will endeavor to earn more cash so I can send you further funds in the future. Please tell Billy and Tom I love them. It’s up to you whether you tell the detectives about this note. But please don’t tell them about the cash. They’ll confiscate it as evidence. I have to stay low at present, as I have a very complicated task ahead of me. But maybe when it’s complete I can come visit. I’d risk imprisonment as a result, but twelve months away from the boys has been too long. I’d happily have life imprisonment for one minute with the twins. Look after yourself. Brian is the perfect man for you. He’ll make you smile. The flower came from your yard. You cut it. That’s the line you take with the detectives.
The cell phone number on the back of this note is new. It’s your access to me. Memorize the number. Never store it in your phone. Burn the note after reading.
Always remember I’m watching over you.
WC x
Faye clutched a chair as she felt giddy and feared she would collapse. She held the note to her chest, breathing fast, mouthing but not articulating, “Thank God! Thank God!” She read the note again, her eyes wide with disbelief. But she knew this wasn’t a trick. Cochrane had deliberately made no attempt to hide his distinctive handwriting. This was him. Putting his neck on the line once again. Telling her that the family he could never have was more important to him than his safety.
How he knew the location of the safe house was beyond her comprehension. How he knew about Brian was also a puzzle. Then again, Cochrane had peculiar skills and seemed to know a lot of things. She was glad. And what mattered was he was alive.
She looked at the corridor leading to the spare bedrooms containing the detectives. The TVs they were watching were audible. And when they retired to their rooms after dinner, they had a rule that they would give her privacy unless there was a problem.
Quickly, she hid the money in her handbag, grabbed a box of matches, and burned the note over the sink. She placed the rose in a wineglass and wept.
Will watched Faye from the yard. Next to him wa
s the rosebush. The flower he’d cut from the bush was his way of saying she was a great woman and was loved by all. His lip trembled as he saw Faye in tears. He wished he could go to her and give her a hug. So many times in the last year he’d watched her and the twins from a distance, making sure they were okay. Tonight was the closest he’d gotten. But he’d arrived too late to see the boys. That broke his heart.
He meant what he’d said in the note. When this was over, he’d come see them, even if it meant he was killed as a result.
The senior White House adviser to the president had whimsically given himself the code name Deep Throat. But he wasn’t a benign informant, driven by a conscience to blow the whistle on unsavory activity on Capitol Hill. On the contrary, he was a bastard who needed power around him. The right kind of power. He’d never be president; long ago he’d realized that. There were too many skeletons in his closet, too much bad media claiming he was a fascist who wanted to influence the president toward isolationism by shutting down borders and freedom of speech. So he’d come up with a plan: get someone into power who was like him, a power-hungry politician who’d tread over everyone to get to the top.
Deep Throat picked up his phone in his office in the White House’s East Wing. “This matter better be solved soon,” he said.
“There’s a complication. He’s alive.”
“He?”
“I’m not going to say his name on the phone.”
Deep Throat thought a second. “Does his name begin with W?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know he’s alive?”
“I just know. Don’t ask me how.”
“We had this covered. W will mess this up,” Deep Throat responded.
“He won’t mess it up. He’s the only person who could untangle it.”
“Same thing.” Deep Throat looked around to ensure he wasn’t being overheard. “You have procedures in place?”
“Yes.”
“People?”
“I have solid workers.”
