Veil v-1

by Reginald Cook

  Veil

  ( Veil - 1 )

  Reginald Cook

  Veil

  Reginald Cook

  "The real rulers in Washington are invisible, and exercise power from behind the scenes."

  Justice Felix Frankfurter, U.S. Supreme Court Justice

  “In politics, nothing happens by accident. If it happened, you can bet it was planned that way."

  Franklin Delano Roosevelt/ 32nd US President

  Prologue

  Thirty minutes before my scheduled seven thirty a.m. wake-up call, I rolled out of bed, my back stiff and aching. Like every day since assuming my new position, I knew I could look forward to a long, eventful, tiring schedule. But loved it. Dallas wasn’t my favorite city in the country. In fact, many of the locals despised me, and my advisors said the visit would not be a pleasant one. Someone even took out a full-page ad criticizing my work, even though my second in command was a much-loved Texan-one of their own. It didn’t matter. It came with the territory as my duty to serve, and serve them I did. My staff decided I should spend the night in Fort Worth, then fly to Dallas the following day. There I’d give a luncheon address at the Trade Mart to some of the city’s prominent business leaders. I wish we’d flown to Dallas the night before so I could rest a little and spend some quiet time with my wife, Jackie. As happens with most married couples, our marriage went through some difficult times, much of it my fault. My torrid schedule didn’t help matters, but after Dallas, we’d spend a couple of days to ourselves. I wanted to make amends for several, shall I say, indiscretions, so my mood was good despite the long day ahead.

  I let Jackie sleep a little longer while I took a quick shower. When I finished, I found her awake, getting ready for the day, and kissed her on the forehead, then the lips. I marveled, as I often did, how even first thing in the morning she looked absolutely radiant. Yes, when the trip concluded, I definitely planned on spending more quality time with her. She dealt with so much day in and day out; raising a family, being a good wife, and balancing work and home with impeccable style and poise. We talked briefly while I dressed, mostly about our two children, Caroline, and John Jr. We marveled at how fast time flew by and how both of them grew up so fast. Like most parents, we wanted the best for them and knew they’d grow up to be fine adults. As we talked, I could tell she would’ve preferred passing on the events planned. She disliked media attention and hated having so much of our privacy open to the public. It was a sore spot between us, so I didn’t address the matter. I simply smiled, gave her an understanding look, and kissed her again. A knock at the door interrupted our brief moment, and my personal secretary, Evelyn Lincoln, asked if I’d say hello to several of her old friends. Evelyn, more than a secretary to me, was my friend, my confidant, and on more than one occasion, my protector, so of course I told her I’d be happy to oblige. After I finished getting dressed, I could see that Jackie would be running late-something to do with her hair. It annoyed me a little, but I kept it to myself. I gathered a few things and stepped out into the hallway to apologize to Marjorie Belew, wife of a local prominent attorney, and Jackie’s escort to a breakfast in Fort Worth. Considerate and gracious about the delay, she said she understood, although I could tell she was a little nervous. To lighten the tension I told a few of what I thought were my best jokes, and soon we laughed like we’d known each other for years. Evelyn arrived a few minutes later with her friends. I greeted them and happened to glance outside the hallway window, amazed at the number of people gathered to hear me speak. A light rain fell, but the crowd seemed unperturbed. It was much more than I expected.

  Mrs. Belew escorted me outside; Jackie was still not ready. There were at least six or seven thousand people waiting, and when I took the stage they burst into a thunderous applause. Let me tell you, if anyone ever tries to convince you that ovations don’t affect them, they’re lying. I walked to the podium and the sun came out on cue. The crowd chanted, “Where’s Jackie? Where’s Jackie?” I pointed towards the hotel suite, still a little peeved she didn’t come down with me, and told them she was getting dressed, and that it took women longer. But of course, Jackie looked better. They all laughed.

  After the speech came the part I really looked forward to at these events, meeting the people. I walked down into the crowd and shook hands with as many of them as I could. It drove my security team crazy, but I didn’t care. Touching them charged me up in a way nothing else could. It gave me strength.

  We went back inside the hotel to one of the banquet rooms for breakfast. Famished, I looked forward to my usual soft-boiled eggs, bacon, dry toast with marmalade, orange juice, and coffee.

  Jackie finally arrived to the delight of the crowd, and looked marvelous in a pink dress with navy blue lapels and a pink pillbox hat.

  A true fashion queen, I doubt I would’ve been so popular without her.

  We kissed. The crowd applauded wildly and chanted “Jackie! Jackie!

  Jackie!” We went to the airport for the short flight to Dallas. When we arrived, I found myself even more shocked and amazed at the number of people waiting to see us. To say they turned out in full force would sell it short. They were everywhere, lined up along the streets as far as the eye could see. Well, not everyone tendered their support. I did notice this one gentlemen sitting on top of a car, an ugly despicable look on his face, a not too flattering sign in his hands. Hey, my father said you can’t please everybody, and you’re a fool if you try. My staff informed me everything was in order for the motorcade procession through downtown Dallas, and on to the Trade Mart. The clear sky signaled an absolutely gorgeous southern day, so I requested the top be removed from the car so we could enjoy it. Besides, it gave the crowd a better look at us.

  Several members of my security staff objected, but I insisted. What good is a parade if you can’t see the band and floats? They weren’t very happy about it, but indulged me anyway. Someone presented Jackie with a beautiful bouquet of red roses, and she loved them, and decided she’d carry them with her in the car. Jackie and I sat in the back seat, she to my left. Bill Greer, one of my security staff, drove, and another member of the security team sat beside him.

  Texas Governor John Connelly and his wife Nellie took the jump seats; Connelly sat directly in front of me.

  Riding in a motorcade is always eventful. No, electric. Even the chronic pain in my back couldn’t put a damper on the moment and disappeared. People who care deeply about you and the country get a chance to see the man in-charge, and the man in-charge gets a chance to draw closer to the people he’s sworn to serve.

  We drove along waving to the crowd, and I noticed a little girl holding up a sign. It read, “Mr. President, will you please stop and shake hands with me?” I told Bill to stop, and immediately, children swarmed the car. Trust me, that never gets old.

  “They’re approaching Houston and Elm,” a garbled voice crackled across the car’s two-way radio. I looked at my wrist to check the time, but as usual, I’d forgotten my watch.

  I waved to the crowd standing to my right. Jackie handled the left side, as was our way. I tried to make eye contact with as many people as possible. It made the moment personal. The people. It’s all about the people.

  I turned to wave in the direction of a lovely blond haired woman wearing a bright red coat. Through the crowd noise I thought I heard her call, “Over here Mr. President!”

  I raised my right hand to wave. A strange popping sound cut through the air. I tried to ask Jackie if she heard it, but something lodged in my throat and I couldn’t speak. Everything slowed down. My hearing fell hollow. My vision blurred. Something struck me hard from behind and I lurched forward. I heard screaming, and a searing pain exploded all over my body. I felt dizzy, light-headed, and couldn’t breathe. I was choking,
on my own blood. I wanted to help Jackie, make sure she was okay. I heard Governor Connelly’s frantic voice as though it were coming from inside a tunnel.

  “Oh no, no, no! My God, they’re going to kill us all!” I needed to tell Jackie that I love her, and struggled to get out the words. I desperately wanted someone to help me. I wanted to live!

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a spark of light. My head snapped back like I’d been punched in the face. The right side of my skull burned. My mind went blank. I felt life drain away. Eyes wide-open, I saw only darkness.

  They say the last sense to go right before you die is your hearing.

  It’s true. I heard Jackie’s echoing voice fade as I fell away from her, down a hole. I struggled to wake up, but couldn’t.

  “Oh God, they’ve shot my husband,” I heard her say. “I love you Jack.”

  Then I…

  1

  Nikki Thorne rolled a cup of cafe mocha back and forth in her hands, the condensation pouring from her lips and nose steamier than that rising out of the cup.

  “Tell me again why we’re out here freezing our butts off?” she asked, more agitated than curious. “How do we know he’ll show here, at this house, for this judge?” She drained the Starbucks brew and tossed the empty out the window.

  “Just a hunch,” said Robert.

  Robert Veil understood the rare necessity to kill, but murder, especially that of a federal judge, he couldn’t tolerate and wouldn’t let it happen again if he could help it.

  He rubbed his gloved hands together and blew warm air in-between them. Washington D.C. felt artic, unusual for late March. He checked his watch, sucking his teeth. The Sopranos were about to start and he’d have to settle for reruns, again.

  He whittled down the killer’s next victim to Judge Zechariahs Shaw.

  “Why?” Thorne asked again.

  His gut tightened. “It just feels right.” The killer, psychotic and brutal, held a million-dollar bounty on his head and the Justice Department made it clear. “We want him alive, but won’t cry over spilled milk.”

  Robert sank back into the black leather seat of Thorne’s new Range Rover and closed his eyes. He hated the new car smell, but she promised to hang his balls from her rear view mirror if he so much as passed gas.

  “Robert!”

  He grabbed the night-vision binoculars off the dashboard.

  “Over to the right,” Thorne said, pointing. “At the far end of the wall.”

  Judge Shaw’s house lay hidden behind a twelve-foot red brick wall.

  Thick leafless ivy vines stretched back and forth across it, and large green Virginia pines stood guard at each corner. A dark figure in a ski mask climbed one of the trees and scurried over the wall.

  “It’s him,” said Robert, opening the passenger door. “Let’s go.”

  “We should call and get back-up,” said Thorne.

  “No, we’ll catch this guy then call the troops.” Before she could answer, Robert bolted across the dimly lit street.

  She ran after him, her Mosberg pistol-grip shotgun dangling from her shoulder like a purse.

  They followed the same path as their target, easily scaling the wall.

  Robert’s recommendation that the judge bathe his house in floodlights went ignored. A mistake.

  “Should we call inside to warn them?”

  “No,” said Robert. “That might scare this guy off, besides, I don’t want John Wayne in there to come out blasting. We’ll catch this guy inside, beat him down til he passes out, then call the police.”

  “I like it,” said Thorne.

  Robert smiled. “I knew you would.”

  Judge Shaw’s two-story colonial, large, but simple, stood behind four ivory pillars, with green and white shutters framing each window. A light snow covered the expansive yard, undisturbed except for the assailant’s footprints.

  Stooped behind a large barren cherry blossom tree, they watched the dark clothed figure climb the side of the house, using a white ivy trellis to pull himself up. Removing the trellis; another idea dismissed by the judge. The killer easily used it to reach a window on the second floor.

  “This guy’s done his homework,” said Robert. “That’s the guest room. It’s unoccupied.”

  “He’s inside,” said Thorne. “Let’s go.”

  They sprinted across the snow-powder. Robert tugged on the trellis to test its strength. Thorne went first, reached the window, and slipped inside. When he made it in, she stood ready at the bedroom door, peering down the hall.

  “The master bedroom’s fifteen feet down the hall to the right,” whispered Robert. “No kids, no pets.”

  They slipped out of their black leather jackets. Robert unlatched the holster strap on his Berretta 9mm and peeked into the hallway. A woman’s terrified shriek cut through the air. They bolted and burst through the door.

  The killer stood over a horrified Judge Shaw, gun to the magistrate’s head. Mrs. Shaw, clinging to the headboard for life, screamed louder when she saw them.

  Robert crashed into the assassin. The gun discharged, but missed.

  Their momentum carried them over the bed to the floor. The killer scrambled to his feet and pointed his gun down at Robert’s head.

  Thorne racked her shotgun. “Drop it muthafucka!” The killer hesitated. She placed the tip of the barrel between his eyes. “And don’t make mommy tell you twice!”

  The killer froze, carefully lowered his gun and dropped it on the floor.

  “You black bitch,” he uttered.

  Yeah, that was real smart, Robert thought, recalling the last time he heard the word “bitch” tossed Thorne’s way.

  She swung the pistol grip fast and hard across the masked man’s face, knocking him out cold. Robert smiled. It wasn’t the first time his best friend came to his aid. They’d been trading the favor since junior high.

  “I owe you one,” he said, joking.

  “Hell, I could buy half of Virginia with what you owe me.” Thorne turned on the lights. Judge Shaw stood in the doorway petrified, his eyes teary, hands quivering. Mrs. Shaw lay crumbled in a heap on the bed weeping into a pillow. Thorne walked over and sat beside her.

  “It’s okay Mrs. Shaw, it’s over,” she said, gently stroking her frazzled hair.

  Thorne never ceased to amaze Robert. She looked like a beauty queen and could be quite kind. In a fight, she hit with the bite of a Great White.

  Robert held down a button on his cell phone. Their contact at the FBI answered. He explained the situation, hung up, then turned his attention to Judge Shaw, who, known in the courthouse as tough, dismissive, and arrogant, tried to mouth words, but none came. He stumbled over, took Thorne’s place next to his wife and held her, his sobs now audible.

  Thorne walked over to the attacker. “Let’s get a look at this jackass,” she said, her shotgun poised.

  Robert pulled off the killer’s ski mask. “His jaw’s broken.” He leaned in close. “It’s not him,” Robert said, looking up at Thorne. “It’s not the guy we’re looking for.”

  Thorne smiled and laughed. “Think we’ll get paid for this?” Three hours inched by. Robert and Thorne answered a barrage of questions from the FBI, Secret Service, and D.C. police. Agent Douglas Sams, their liaison at the FBI, stomped around the house, peeved they didn’t call before rushing inside.

  “If we’d waited the judge and his wife would be dead,” said Robert.

  “We didn’t have time,” Thorne added, nodding in agreement.

  “Who is the guy anyway?” asked Robert.

  Agent Sams eyed them suspiciously and sighed. “His name’s Lucas Garland, an Aryan Nation thug.”

  Thorne’s face lit up with recognition. “I remember him. Murder, right?”

  “Right,” said Sams, crossing his arms. “Judge Shaw gave him life about a year ago. He escaped from the West Virginia State Penitentiary last month.”

  “Guess he was looking for a little payback,” said Robert. “Trying to make
it look like our guy.”

  “Look,” said Agent Sams, pointing his finger at Robert. “Next time call us. If you don’t want to play ball with the team, then take your blood money and leave.”

  Robert smiled and leaned forward. “You’re just a field hand Agent Sams, remember that. It’s not your call.” Agent Sams’ rugged good looks twisted with contempt and he stormed away. Robert and Thorne slipped through the sea of reporters assembled outside and jumped into her Rover.

  Well past midnight, the frigid capitol slept. A few cars, limos, and taxicabs inched their way through the icy streets. A light snow fell.

  Robert stared out at the well-lit monuments visible from the freeway, sank back into the new leather, and closed his eyes. Wynton Marsalis poured soft tones through the speakers. He relaxed.

  When he signed up to work for Uncle Sam, Robert never imagined he’d be chasing down international criminals, terrorists, and killers for money. After a stint in the Marines, he ended up working as a Special Forces Black-ops Field Commander. Thorne was his second in command. They figured they’d spend a few years as spooks, and then grab a couple of lucrative security gigs with Fortune Five Hundred companies. It seemed a plausible plan, until Desert Storm.

  They were assigned to locate and capture members of Saddam Hussein’s chemical weapons team, including scientists and military personnel. They found them working in a Syrian Desert compound, fifty miles outside of Baghdad, just west of Karbala. Orders came down from on high, interrogate and execute them all. Robert and Thorne refused, walked away from the assignment into a court marshal, and out of government service.

  After that, they opened up their own shop handling private investigations and security for corporations and the wealthy. Compared to the action they were used to, it was mind numbing, so they quickly acquired a taste for hunting down the worst the world had to offer. They scored big on a couple of high profile captures, and it didn’t take long for the boys in Washington to come calling. Robert and Thorne were given shots at the tough cases, and the hard to solve. They worked off the books, giving the government complete deniability. Some in federal law enforcement scoffed and complained. Robert didn’t care. He enjoyed making them pay.