by L. T. Ryan
I’d grown tired of thorough. I wanted names. I wanted reasons. None of this ‘confirm you did this and that’ crap he kept feeding me.
“Greyhound,” he said.
“The bus line?”
“Yes, the key goes to a locker at the Greyhound station.”
“What’s there?”
Conners clenched his jaw. Thick muscles worked in back and he pursed his lips together. “I don’t know for sure.”
“Who’s there?”
“Don’t know that either.”
“Did you work with Delaney?”
“Yes.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Can’t tell you that.”
I took a sip of coffee. “Why can’t you tell me?”
“Because, officially, we don’t exist.” He waved his hands in the air, partly to be demonstrative and partly to waft the smoke away. “Officially, I don’t exist.”
I nodded while keeping my eyes focused on his. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Even within the known agencies there were departments that didn’t exist. I was attached to one of them. There were also men who didn’t exist, men who were worse than Martinez. Men who did things that people refused to acknowledge could be done in the name of freedom. The things that had to be done to defend that freedom. Nobody wants to think of what actions must be performed to keep them safe.
“Sounds like a cushy position.”
“Jack, you get those documents and call me. I need to take a look at them and then we can figure this out.”
“What’s the locker number?”
He shook his head and looked to the side.
“B915.”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the key and tossed it at him.
“Here, you go get it yourself then.”
He pushed the keys back to me.
“Don’t be stupid. One call and you’re locked up for life.”
I narrowed my eyes and stared him down for fifteen seconds.
“That’s what this comes down to?”
He slumped over and placed his elbows on the table.
“I’m sorry, Jack. That was uncalled for.”
I said nothing.
“I know where this goes. Most of it at least. And if I go get those documents, and someone is waiting, I’m a dead man. Look at me.” He waved his hands in front of his body. “If I die, then all knowledge of this dies. And you’ll most likely die. As a traitor, too.”
“And if I go there and someone is waiting?”
“You got more than a fifty-fifty chance to take them out.”
I sat back and crossed my arms. There weren’t many possible scenarios, but each one that existed played through my mind. The best option was for me to go to the Greyhound station and retrieve whatever sat inside the locker. I reached across the table and grabbed the key. Slid across the bench and stood next to the table.
“I’ll call you in a few hours.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
I turned and started to walk away.
“Jack,” he said.
I looked over my shoulder.
“Like I said, I know where this goes. If you decide to open those documents, you need to prepare yourself for what’s in there.”
I walked back to the table.
“Where is that?”
Conners shook his head. “I can’t tell you. Not until I know you are one hundred percent on my side.”
“You haven’t figured out that I am?”
“No. Once you return, I’ll know, though.”
Chapter 16
The D.C. Greyhound station was located on 1st Street, about two and a half miles from the restaurant. I decided to walk. I went a block north to K Street then headed east until I reached 1st Street. I figured the later I arrived at the station the better. Chances were the schedule thinned out at night, resulting in fewer people around.
A cold wind blew down the street, numbing my face and carrying a combination of wood smoke and exhaust fumes. The sky clouded over. It looked as if a spring snow storm was brewing.
My watch read 11:30 when I reached the Greyhound station. I walked up 1st Street and turned on L Street. Continued past the bus station and stopped. A tree in bloom provided cover from the evenly spaced black wrought iron lamp posts that lined the sidewalk. I leaned against the tree and scanned the area. The activity across the street was virtually nil, with only a few people here and there. A red four door sedan pulled up and dropped off a young woman, late teens or early twenties, probably heading back to college after her spring break.
I scanned the parking lot behind me and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. There were only a dozen or so cars, all parked close to the lights. They belonged to employees, I figured. There was nothing that resembled a government official’s car.
I pushed off the tree and walked across the street. The area behind the glass double door entrance was empty. I pulled the door open and stepped into the yellow tinted bus station. Directly in front of me was a large board displaying a digital schedule. To the left was a bank of windows. Ropes stretched out and across, creating a maze for passengers to wait in before buying their tickets. No one was in line. Only one window was occupied by an overweight lady reading a book. She looked up and then quickly back down when I made eye contact with her.
To my right were several rows of seats in a blue and white checkerboard pattern. I turned and headed that way. The outside facing wall was blank, painted a drab brown. The back wall was lined with lockers, as was the area to the left of the seats. The place was filled with row upon row of gray and blue and green painted lockers.
Only six seats were occupied, consisting of two couples and two individual travelers. None took note of me. I walked down the aisle in the middle of the seating area and took a seat at the last row. Then I watched and waited.
I let an hour pass. I did nothing. I talked to no one. I let my eyes wander to the row of lockers and focused on row B. No one entered. No one exited. Nice and quiet. Part of me felt it was too quiet. Could I trust Conners? If he wanted me to go down, this was the perfect set up. I was trapped here. A tactical team would have no trouble extracting me, dead or alive. I brushed the thought aside. He could have had me taken care of outside the restaurant. The way I saw it, he wanted to get his hands on these documents as much as I did. If he planned on taking me down, he’d do it after I handed them over to him. The simple solution was to not hand them over.
I got up and went outside, stopped near the glass doors and watched the sparse traffic as it passed. A car drove through the loop that ran in front of the building. It slowed near the entrance, but never stopped. Tinted windows blocked any view inside of the car.
I took a deep breath before walking back inside. The cold air cleansed my lungs. I headed toward the rows of lockers and turned at the row labeled B and walked past locker B915. I stopped ten feet away and looked over my shoulder. No one followed me. I cut down a cross aisle and turned at row L where I grabbed the key out of a random locker. If I needed to stash anything, I’d do it in that locker. Probably the last place they would look.
I went back to row B, peeking around the corner to make sure no one was waiting by locker B915. Satisfied that the row was empty, I walked up to the locker. I stood there for a few minutes, key in hand, debating whether or not to open it. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being set up. I didn’t know Conners well enough to put double crossing me past him. Hell, it didn’t even have to be him. It could be any number of people I’d apparently pissed off recently.
I took a deep breath, exhaled and stuck the key in the locker. Turned it and opened the rectangular metal door. It squeaked against its hinges. Inside sat a black bag with a zipper on top and a mesh back. I grabbed the bag and turned away from the front of the bus station. I walked down the aisle until it opened up into an empty seating area.
This time I sat in the first row of seats. I pulled my jacket open, clearing a path to my Beretta. My
heart beat fast and my breath quickened. The training I had been put through taught me how to control panic. I followed the steps and relaxed myself to the point where I could focus.
I unzipped the bag and looked up.
Two men stood fifteen feet away from me. Two men, that upon second glance, I knew.
“Jack Noble.”
I nodded while zipping the bag shut.
“Gallo, Bealle.”
Gallo stepped forward. A towel hung over his hand, a weak attempt at hiding his weapon. He smiled when my gaze lifted from the gun to meet his eyes. “Let’s go, Jack.”
* * *
Bealle walked in front of me. Gallo behind, his gun pressed into my back. I held the bag tight to my chest. For some reason they didn’t try to take it, at least not yet.
We stepped through the front door and the wind hit like a wall of ice. The sweat on my forehead evaporated and gave me a slight chill.
They led me down L Street to an empty parking lot. We moved to the middle of the dirt and gravel lot, stopping outside the range of the street lights.
“We’re not here to hurt you,” Gallo said.
“What’s the gun for then?”
“Our protection.”
I said nothing and kept the bag secure in my arms.
“We aren’t too keen on taking you on again, especially after what you’ve been through.”
“How’d you know I’d be here?”
“We have sources,” Bealle said.
“Conners?”
“No. I don’t know any Conners.”
“Me either,” Gallo said. “Let’s go someplace we can sit down and talk.”
I wondered if that was for their protection as well.
We walked through the streets of Washington, D.C. until we found a twenty-four hour diner. Gallo asked for the booth in the corner by the window. He sat against the wall. I sat with my back to the restaurant and Bealle squeezed in next to me. I placed the bag between my left leg and the window.
A brown haired waitress came to our table. I ordered coffee. Gallo and Bealle ordered water.
“What do you know, Jack?” Gallo asked.
I shrugged. “Not much. I know that you guys framed me for the murder of that Iraqi family—”
“That wasn’t us, Jack.” Gallo placed his elbows on the table. He leaned forward. “Martinez was pissed. He probably still is. You made him look bad and then kicked his ass. He’s a hothead. But it’s not like him to go back, murder a family and then frame you.”
“What were we doing there that night?” I asked. “Were we there to kill the man?”
Gallo glanced at Bealle and nodded.
“Yes,” Bealle said. “If he didn’t give up the information he was to be terminated.”
“What about the woman?”
“No, that wasn’t part of it.”
“Martinez took that too far,” Gallo said. “That’s something we agree on. But, you know, there are no rules, man. We’re hunting out there and we need to get the information and neutralize the threat before it gets too far.”
“And that’s where you screwed up, Jack,” Bealle said. “Repeatedly you’ve gotten in our way. Not just us, but other teams.”
“It’s because I can’t work like that. I’m not some security detail. For eight years I’ve worked on these teams and always been involved. Now we go to Iraq after the attacks and I’m standing in doorways and providing the muscle. Hell with that.”
I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms over my chest and looked out the window at drunken people pouring out of a bar. I checked my watch and saw that it was now two a.m.
Gallo took a moment and responded. “It’s not just you. Other teams in the co-op are having this issue as well.”
I hiked my shoulders and held out my hands in a ‘who-cares?’ gesture.
“What else do you know?” Gallo asked.
“I know that half the people who come in contact with me end up dead. Stick around and you might skew that ratio even further.”
Gallo smiled.
“I know that somehow they tracked me. I figured they used the cell phone and got rid of it. Still, Abbot was killed.” I locked eyes with Gallo. “They murdered him and left me alone. So tell me, what the hell is going on here?”
Gallo took a drink of water and leaned back. “There were six teams. You know that, you were there with us. Six teams, a dozen Marines.” He turned and looked at the window at the crowd of people passing by, laughing and talking with each other. “Four are dead, six are in prison on base and you and Logan are on the run.”
The gravity of the situation hit home. I opened my mouth to speak. Nothing came out.
“You see where this is going?”
“What are they in prison for?”
“Returning to the scene of an interrogation and murdering any Iraqis there.”
I felt sick. “Why didn’t—why didn’t Abbot tell me this?” My mind raced as the world closed in. “He was about to. He had to make a call for my next contact, but he was going to tell me this before I left.”
Gallo shrugged and shook his head.
“What did you tell them when they asked about the family?” I asked.
“They never did,” Bealle said. “At least, they never asked us. Who knows if they asked Martinez?”
“Where is Martinez?”
“We haven’t seen him since that night. Word is he took leave and came back…”
“Here,” I said. “He’s in D.C.”
Gallo nodded and continued. “We never filed a complaint, signed a statement, nothing against you or Logan. And the other teams we’ve spoken with said the same. But…”
“But?” I hung on his words and watched as his face twisted in thought.
“There was always a team that didn’t have, uh, Marines attached. Six CIA agents, that’s it. I don’t mean us. Martinez and five agents.”
I knew where this was heading.
“We never worked with Martinez until a few months ago.”
“When they reorganized the teams,” I said.
Gallo nodded and continued. “Well, can you guess who took over the other five teams?”
“I’m guessing the other five men who worked on the CIA only team.” I said.
“Yup,” Bealle said.
I turned in the seat and leaned back against the glass so I could see both of them. I didn’t care who was outside. If someone was going to take me out, let them do it.
“Someone is trying to take apart the program then,” I said.
Both men nodded.
“That’s what we think,” Gallo said.
“Any ideas who?”
“We’ve been trying to determine that. Doing our own investigation. We can’t find anyone who knows. It’s coming from high up, whether in our agency or outside of it, it’s high up.”
I thought about it for a second before responding. “So why not just terminate the program? Send us back to the Marines to finish our careers behind a desk and merge your teams together. That would make more sense, right?”
“Absolutely,” Gallo said. “Why wouldn’t they do that? That’s what we can’t figure out.”
“Because someone else high up is pushing to keep the program going.”
Gallo shrugged. “Makes sense.”
“Another question, then. So we’re saying that someone wanted us out of the way. Any ideas why?”
“So we can act however they want us to. There were too many incidents like yours where a Marine got in the way.”
“You say that like we’re some damn choir boys.”
Both men laughed.
“It also makes me question what they were going to do once we were out of the way.”
Gallo nodded. “Yeah, I wonder too. I think I have an answer, but I don’t want to believe it.”
I held out my hands. “Might as well.”
Gallo opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t.
Bealle said, “I think you know where he�
��s going with that, Jack. Let’s not go down that road. Right now we just want to put a stop to what’s going on.”
“What do you care?”
“We might not agree with the new direction. And if that’s the case, we might be terminated also.”
We said nothing for five minutes. The three of us sat in silence. I went over the conversation, making an extra mental note of the most important parts. I hoped that whatever was in the folder in the black bag could shed some light on what they said.
Gallo slid out of his seat and stood in front of the table. “Jack, we’re going to leave you for now.”
Bealle placed a piece of paper in front of me. “Those are our numbers. Call in the morning and we’ll meet up. Give you some time to absorb this. Think it over. Maybe something will click.”
With that, they left. I got up and switched seats so my back was against the wall, giving me a view of the diner. I watched Bealle and Gallo leave, keeping my eye on them until they turned out of sight. I had to shake my head as I looked around the diner. How had I missed so many people entering?
When the waitress came by, I ordered another cup of coffee. A few minutes later she returned and set the coffee down in front of me. I declined when she asked if I needed anything else. I watched her walk back to the wait station, and then I pulled the black bag onto my lap and unzipped it. I slid the manila folder out of the bag and set it on the table. My thumb and forefinger wrapped around the outer corner of the folder. I took a deep breath and opened it.
I didn’t know exactly what to expect, but my initial reaction was disappointment. There were just a few papers inside and nothing else. I turned the papers over and read the first line.
Then I read it again.
“Holy shit,” I said out loud, garnering more than a few looks from the resident bar-goers in my presence.
There, on the first line of the first document was the name Robert Marlowe, Deputy Secretary of Defense, a man who had a vested interest in the situation in Iraq for sure.
Chapter 17
The list of names on the paper included several that I didn’t know. Marlowe was the most damning. I recognized a few other politicians as well as some of the upper brass of the Armed Forces. The best plan of action was to confront Marlowe. And that’s why I stood across the street from his house at four in the morning.
