Cold Harbor (The Gibson Vaughn Series Book 3)

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  A lap around the power plant turned up nothing out of the ordinary. Gibson parked and went inside with the laptop and headphones, the laminated sleeve, and a bag of drive-through burgers. The burgers were meant as a peace offering; he’d inhaled his on the way there. At the end of the service corridor, he started to collect the hood and restraints from their hiding place but stopped. It made no difference whether Ogden knew where he’d been held. They were past all that now. Gibson took the gun, though; they weren’t past that quite yet.

  Ogden sat on the floor in the corner of his cell. He licked his lips at the sight of Gibson but made no move to rise. The cell and its resident had both taken a turn for the worse. The alarm clock lay smashed against a wall, and trash littered the floor. The cell stank like old, moldy shoes in the back of a forgotten gym locker. Ogden was filthy, and his jumpsuit was stained and torn. His beard was matted and thick except for one bare patch where he had obsessively yanked out the hairs. Ogden kept on licking his lips and staring at him.

  Gibson put down the stool and sat down. Neither man spoke. He slid the bag of burgers across the floor, scattering protein bar wrappers in its wake. It glided to a halt against Ogden’s foot. For a minute, he ignored it but then caught the scent of real food. He snatched up the bag, tore open the wrapper, and ate the first burger ravenously.

  “I’d slow down,” Gibson said. “Or it will make you sick.”

  Ogden didn’t acknowledge the advice and took a bite of the second burger, chewing methodically.

  “I made the same mistake. I had burgers for my first meal too. At a truck stop in West Virginia where you guys dumped me. Unless you count a banana as a meal, but really that was more of a snack.”

  “I didn’t think you were coming back,” Ogden said, speaking for the first time. He’d finished both burgers and seemed more aware of his surroundings.

  “That why you broke the alarm clock?”

  Ogden cut to the chase. “Did you talk to my people? Am I getting out of here? Do we have a deal?”

  “No, I haven’t talked to them,” Gibson said. “I don’t think there’s time for that now.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s something you need to read,” Gibson said. He crossed the room and placed the laminated sleeve on the cot.

  “What is it?” Ogden asked, climbing to his feet.

  “I don’t know,” Gibson said and waited by the door.

  Ogden sat on the edge of the cot and slid the papers out of the envelope. As he read, his eyes narrowed, and his body language changed. He sat forward intently, leaning over the pages as he read. Halfway through, he glanced up at Gibson disbelievingly before returning to his reading.

  “Where did you get this?” he demanded when he was finished. “Do you know what this means?”

  “It means you’ve been breached.”

  “This is treason, Vaughn.”

  “That’s kind of the point.” Gibson handed him the laptop and headphones before Ogden could reach any more premature conclusions.

  Ogden watched in mute fascination. Gibson saw him flinch at Calista’s death. When it was over, Ogden put the laptop aside and thought long and hard about what he’d seen.

  “When was this taken?” Ogden asked.

  “A few hours ago.”

  “Who is the man?”

  “Titus Stonewall Eskridge Jr. That’s actually his real name, by the way. He fronts a PMC called Cold Harbor.”

  “I know of them.”

  “Good, because he already has a buyer lined up in the Middle East.”

  “How did you get this?” Ogden asked. “Scratch that, I don’t care. I suppose you think this buys you immunity for kidnapping me?”

  “Nope.”

  “No?” Ogden asked, surprised.

  “No, because it never happened.”

  “Brother, you live in a fantasy world.”

  “It didn’t happen, Damon. You’ve been running me this whole time. Ever since I got out. This was your operation from the start. A damned impressive piece of work too.”

  “You actually think I’m going to go along with that?”

  “Why not? This way you get to be the hero again. I don’t know about you, but that sounds a whole lot better than admitting you got taken like a bitch and locked in a bathroom for a month. Does Langley give promotions for being a victim?”

  “Easy on that talk,” Ogden said angrily, but Gibson could see him considering the proposition.

  “Take all the time you need,” Gibson said. “But keep in mind that C-130 is in the air and on its way to North Africa.”

  That got Ogden’s attention. “Let’s say I agree to go along with this. What happens now?”

  Gibson slid a garbage bag across to him.

  “What’s this?” Ogden asked.

  “Your suit. Unless you’d rather go to work dressed like that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  An unassuming green sign announced the exit for the George Bush Center for Intelligence. Beneath it, attached to one of the legs as if an afterthought, a small white sign read: “Authorized Vehicles Only.” Gibson’s Yukon definitely didn’t qualify. The New Headquarters Building wasn’t visible from Dolley Madison Boulevard, but it was back there beyond the trees. Gibson could almost feel it. He turned off at the exit and pulled to the side of the road. The security gate was up around the bend about a hundred yards, but this was as close as he intended to get. Ogden would have to walk the rest of the way.

  “Sure you don’t want to come in for a minute? Say hello,” Ogden said. “I’m sure everyone is dying to meet you.”

  “That sounds like a real bad first date.”

  “You understand that if they want you, they’ll just come get you.”

  “Then come get me. But I have faith that you can sell it to them.”

  “It’s a pretty big sell. They’re going to have questions.”

  “And you’ve got answers,” Gibson said, pointing to the laptop and laminated sleeve resting on Ogden’s knees. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Yeah, we have a deal. But don’t think this clears the slate between you and me.”

  “No,” Gibson said. “But I figure it’s a good start.”

  “I’m not entirely comfortable with having to constantly check my rearview mirror for you. Wondering if you’ve had a change of heart.”

  “Believe me, I feel the same about you. So I’ll be leaving the country tonight. Put a little distance between us.”

  “You understand it had better be one-way. You go, you stay gone,” Ogden said.

  “I know, and I will. But I’m going to need you to call off the dogs first.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Yeah, so there was kind of a . . . thing last night.”

  “What . . . thing?” Ogden said.

  Gibson described the events at Dulles. It already felt like a lifetime ago. He made no mention of Jenn or George, but otherwise it was 80 percent true. He fudged only a little around the edges, but by the time he finished, Ogden’s jaw was hanging open.

  “Do you know how many laws you broke?” Ogden said.

  “None. I was working for you. It was a matter of national security.”

  “Are you kidding me? We don’t have jurisdiction over something like that. You know the shit storm that will come down if I claim the CIA was running an operation on US soil? Homeland and the FBI are going to bend us over.”

  “Well, gosh, Damon, I’m real sorry that saving the CIA’s ass, again, is so damned inconvenient. Next time, I’ll be sure to let the bad guys fly away.”

  “All right, all right, I’ll figure something out. But I’m not going to be able to hold them off forever.”

  “Just until tonight. If I get detained, I’m going to have quite a story to tell,” Gibson said.

  “If you get detained, you’re not going to get a chance to.”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  “I guess we will.”

  Ogden ste
pped out of the vehicle and shut the door gently. He buttoned his jacket against the cold. His suit didn’t fit him properly anymore and hung loosely off his shoulders. He turned back as if he wanted to say something. Gibson lowered the window, but by then Ogden had changed his mind and turned away.

  In the backseat, Duke Vaughn and Bear sat side by side. Duke had an RC Cola in his hand. Bear was kicking the back of the seat with her feet.

  “You’re gonna miss your flight at this rate,” Duke said.

  “Yeah, let’s go already,” Bear said agreeably.

  Gibson had never seen his ghosts together before. It meant something, but he didn’t know what. Duke handed the RC Cola to Bear, who took a tentative sip. She grinned at the sweetness. Duke produced a second bottle, and they clinked necks, a silent toast. Gibson watched them in the rearview mirror. It made him happy to see them together. He liked that they were finally getting along, which, crazy as it sounded, felt important. It gave him hope for the future. His father caught his eye and tapped his watch.

  Agreed.

  Gibson shifted back into gear and made a U-turn. In the rearview mirror, he saw Ogden running up the road in the direction of the guardhouse. When you added it all up, they’d spent perhaps two hours of their lives together. It was peculiar hating a man one barely knew. You ended up hating the idea of the man more than the man himself, filling in the blanks, making up the parts you couldn’t know. Damon Ogden didn’t actually seem like all that bad a guy. Still, he hoped it would be the last time he ever saw him.

  He made the drive to Dulles International Airport braced for the police to box him in and force him onto the shoulder. In the back, Duke and Bear whispered to each other. He’d always been able to hear them clearly, no matter the noise, but now he found himself straining to catch what they were saying. At first it unnerved him, but after a few miles it felt strangely soothing, and he forgot that they were there at all. The main terminal of the airport rose up at the end of the road. In the daylight, its distinctive swoop glistened like the wing of an aircraft in flight. He parked in its shadow and left the doors unlocked. The keys went on the dashboard, the gun in the glove compartment. The bullets disappeared down a storm drain.

  Duke and Bear followed him into the terminal. Bear had trouble keeping up in the crowd, and Duke had to take her hand. It was strange being back here again so soon. In the aftermath of last night’s incident, security was on an emergency footing. In addition to airport police, Gibson saw FBI and Homeland Security. A pair of armed soldiers in urban camos eyed him as he passed by. He prayed Ogden had held up his end of the bargain and that he wasn’t walking into an ambush. He rubbed the brim of his Phillies cap; he needed its good luck right about now.

  The heightened security had snarled progress at the check-in counters. A line fifty passengers deep snaked in front of the Lufthansa desk. He took his place and, while he waited, took out his phone so he could look at the photograph of Ellie. For one wonderful moment, he contemplated getting out of line and finding a flight to Seattle. A tap on his shoulder ended his reverie and reminded him why it was an impossibility. He spun around, expecting the barrel of a gun, but found only an apologetic German tourist with a question. Gibson answered as best he could.

  When Gibson finally made it to the counter, he handed over his passport and asked for a one-way ticket to Frankfurt. The fare was almost three thousand dollars. Next time, try and book in advance, the schoolmarmish counter agent advised. He paid with Calista’s credit card and asked for a window seat. An eternity passed while she entered his information. She scanned his passport, and he could feel himself sweating. She kept glancing up at him until he felt certain she was stalling while security got into position.

  “You’re all set.” She handed him back his passport and circled his departure gate on his boarding pass.

  It felt too easy. Far too easy. An airport police officer with a service dog passed him without a second glance. Maybe they were waiting to take him at the TSA checkpoint.

  He made his way through the crowd and found Duke and Bear waiting for him.

  “This is where we say good-bye, kiddo,” Duke said.

  “You’re not coming?” Gibson asked.

  “We don’t have tickets,” Bear said.

  “We’re going to stay here,” Duke said. “Keep an eye on things while you’re gone. Now get going.”

  “Yeah, get going,” Bear said with a grin.

  Gibson knew it was for the best, but the thought of losing them hurt all the same. He didn’t care if that made him crazy. He picked up his bag and turned to get into line for security.

  “Is that your Phillies cap?” Duke asked Bear.

  “Yes, but I gave it to him.”

  “Suits him.”

  “That’s what I keep saying,” she said.

  After that, Gibson couldn’t hear them anymore.

  The TSA checkpoint was swamped, but his flight didn’t leave for ninety minutes, so he would still make it. He shuffled ahead, stop-start, pushing his duffel bag forward with his foot. It took an agonizingly long time to get to the head of the line. With each step, he expecting to be dragged out of line and handcuffed.

  He glanced back over his shoulder but saw only Duke and Bear, who stood on the concourse waiting for him to pass through security. Bear was giggling. Duke must have been telling tall tales about something or other. His father had always had the golden touch with kids. Bear glanced up at Gibson and waved. He waved back. His father smiled and winked his trademark wink.

  The line moved again, and Gibson shouldered his bag. A TSA worker beckoned him forward to her podium. She scanned his boarding pass, frowning as she read her display. Gibson’s throat tightened, and he forced a smile, holding it despite feeling like a grinning idiot. She scribbled her initials on his boarding pass and handed it back along with his passport.

  “Have a good flight,” she said.

  “You too,” he said automatically, but before he could correct his mistake, she waved the next passenger forward.

  And like that, he was through.

  He picked up a plastic tub and looked back one last time. Duke held Bear by the hand, and together they turned away and walked down the concourse. Gibson watched them until they disappeared from sight.

  The line was backing up behind him. Gibson took off his shoes and belt, put what little he owned on the conveyor belt, and stepped into the machine to be scanned. He raised his hands above his head and stood still while the rotating arm circled him. A bored TSA agent looked at a small monitor, nodded, and waved Gibson through to the other side.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wrote the first chapter of Cold Harbor halfway through the first draft of Poisonfeather. I had a midnight epiphany, clambered back out of bed, and wrote a first draft. Then I locked it in a metaphorical drawer, went back to work on Poisonfeather, and tried not to think about what I had in store for Gibson. I always knew that Poisonfeather would be hard on him, but it wasn’t until then that I realized exactly how hard. But, if Poisonfeather is about hubris, then Cold Harbor is about what comes after the fall. When the limitless expectations of youth dim and the realization sinks in that some bells can’t be unrung. It was a book and a subject that required a lot of unpacking and thought before I could write it. For me, that meant talking it out, for which I am indebted to my friends and family who served as readers and ears. For this, I offer a heartfelt thank-you to Allie Heiman, Steve Konkoly, Daisy Weill, Michelle Mutert, Drew Anderson, Vanessa Brimner, Steve Feldhaus, Kit Manougian, Melanie Danilko, and Eric Schwerin.

  Thanks to Gracie Doyle and everyone at Thomas & Mercer. You are a marvelous team. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done to bring Gibson Vaughn into the world. But mostly the Oreos.

  Thanks to Ed “The Editor” Stackler who, for six weeks every year, does a masterful job of making me sound far more polished than I actually am. Working with you gives me a reason to look forward to February. I “just” couldn’t do it without you.
/>   Thanks to David Hale Smith, a great agent and a better friend. You make it look easy. I know it’s not, but it makes writing books a lot less stressful knowing you’re out there taking her easy for all us sinners.

  Thanks to Deirdre M. Lofft for sitting down and answering my questions about Virginia PD. Any liberties taken are mine and not hers.

  Thanks to Nathan and Patrick Hughes for all things Marine Corps. More than anything, I would hate to get this wrong, so I appreciate your keeping me on the straight and narrow.

  And finally, thanks to Michael Tyner for taking every crazy idea that pops into my head and finding a plausible real-world solution. You are an amazing coconspirator, and I pity anyone foolish enough to cross you. I have your bail money should it ever come to that.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2015 Serena Kefayeh/Creative-Ideation.com

  Matthew FitzSimmons is the author of the bestselling Gibson Vaughn series, which includes The Short Drop and Poisonfeather. Born in Illinois and raised in London, England, he now lives in Washington, DC, where he taught English literature and theater at a private high school for more than a decade.