Fallen Pride (Jesse McDermitt Series)

by Wayne Stinnett

  I looked up at Chyrel and said, “Can you get anything more on the last time both Stolski and Parker were hired by the Agency to do freelance work? Both did five or six jobs for them the first year after leaving, but neither in the last two years. Did they screw something up?”

  “I’ll get right on it,” she said and started to turn.

  “Chyrel,” Deuce said stopping her. “How hard would it be for you to follow their money?”

  She cocked her head and grinned. “Oh, please.”

  “Sorry. Let me know when you find something.”

  I went back to the file. The next page contained evidence photos of the boat Stolski had rented. Besides finding the body, the Coast Guard found his weapons. He was armed with a 9mm Glock 17 and the rocket launcher was actually a Russian made SA-18, which explained it’s heat seeking ability. Next were several photos of a number of pieces of identification, with matching credit cards. In all, Stolski had passports, driver’s licenses, and credit cards for three different aliases. They looked like excellent forgeries.

  “Get to the next page,” Deuce said.

  I flipped the last of the pictures over and looked at the last sheet. It was a letter of commendation from the Station Chief in Karachi, Pakistan. I didn’t get what Deuce thought was significant, until I saw the name of the Station Chief at the bottom, Jason Smith.

  “Smith?” I asked.

  “Could just be a coincidence,” he responded.

  “But, then again, it might not be.”

  “If it’s not,” he said, “I really don’t like where this takes us.”

  “Yeah, it means Smith still has Parker out there, or someone else, but my money’s on him. And he’s after you, or more than likely you and me. We should have someone on watch.”

  “I’ll take the first watch,” Tony said.

  “I got second,” Dawson piped in.

  “Third,” Deuce raised his hand. “Then I’ll wake you, Jesse.”

  “You won’t need to wake him,” Julie said with a laugh. “His coffee maker will.”

  Moments later Chyrel came out of the bunkhouse with another folder. She placed in in front of Deuce and said, “You’re not going to like this.”

  He opened the folder and studied the three sheets of paper inside. “Help me out here, Chyrel. Financial reports aren’t my strong suit.”

  “Using the credit card numbers from the pictures, I checked for recent activity. Stolski made three withdrawals from an ATM here in the Keys in the last three days. That gave me the routing number to his bank in Miami, which I hacked into. Last Thursday he made a substantial transfer into that account from another bank in New York. Like you said, I just followed the money. He transferred money from one bank to another to get it to the New York bank and then to Miami. It comes originally from a numbered account in the Caymans. That took a few minutes, but I managed to access the data. Two weeks ago, $50,000 was wired to that account from a numbered Swiss account. It took another few minutes to access that one. It’s owned by a shell company, which is in turn owned by another shell company. That one is owned by Downeger Industries. The CFO of Downeger Industries is listed as Charlotte Downeger Smith. In 1997, our old boss, Jason Smith, married a woman by the name of Charlotte Downeger, sole heir to the substantial liquid, stock, and land holdings of Downeger Industries in upstate New York. She was murdered by a mugger in Manhattan, almost three years ago, less than a year after she inherited the estate.”

  “Damn,” Julie exclaimed.

  “Damn is right, babe,” Deuce muttered.

  Suddenly, I could see the connection. “Chyrel, find out two more things, then you can call it a night. First, check the background of Charlotte Smith’s father. Specifically, was he in the military? Second, is it possible to check bank records from 2003? Did Stolski receive a large sum of money about that time?”

  “I’ll get right on it. Is there a specific time frame for Stolski receiving the money?”

  “Yeah, look at the month prior to and just after Charlotte Smith’s murder.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Deuce said. “I knew the guy for a year. He could be a prick, but he’s no murderer.”

  “That’s what they said about Jeffrey Dahmer, Deuce. Just check it, will ya, Chyrel?” Deuce nodded to her and she went back to the bunkhouse.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t made the connection, Deuce. Think about it. Downeger?”

  He looked off toward the pier, between the bunkhouses for a moment. Suddenly, he turned back to me and said, “Master Chief Archer Downeger!”

  “Who’s he?” Julie asked.

  “One of the originals!” Tony exclaimed. “He was the first Instructor at the Amphibious Scout and Raider School, in Fort Pierce, during the early months of World War Two. They were the forerunners of the modern day Navy SEAL’s.”

  “It’s a pretty long reach,” Deuce said.

  A moment later Chyrel returned and plopped yet another folder in front of us. “Master Chief Petty Officer Arthur Downeger, United States Navy, Retired. Is that what you were looking for, Jesse?”

  “Depends on what else you found,” I replied as Deuce picked up the file and started looking through it.

  “Two weeks before Charlotte Smith was murdered, Stolski made a single deposit of $75,000 into his primary bank account in Washington. He was working at the CIA office in New York at the time.”

  “Not so much of a reach now is it?” I said looking at Deuce, who was still reading the papers in the folder.

  He frowned and all he could say was, “All that time.”

  “We need to get this information to the FBI,” Julie said.

  “No,” Deuce slowly muttered. “No, we need to get this information to the Colonel.”

  Deuce, Chyrel and I went to the bunkhouse. She activated the encrypted video connection on her laptop. A moment later, Colonel Stockwell’s face appeared on the monitor.

  “I was just about to call you, Deuce. What’s up?”

  “Chyrel is sending you a secure fax, sir. We figured out who Stolski’s accomplice is. Another former CIA operative by the name of Kyle Parker. And they weren’t after the President. They were after me.”

  “Stand by a second, the fax is coming in now.”

  He turned away from the monitor and picked up a bunch of papers from a fax machine right behind him. He put on a pair of reading glasses, as he shuffled through the papers. Deuce continued, “Stolski and Parker were paid by none other than Jason Smith, sir. And we uncovered more. It looks like Smith paid Stolski $75,000 in 2003 to murder his wife, so that he could inherit her money. Money that she’d inherited from her father, one of the first original Navy SEAL’s.”

  “That part’s purely circumstantial,” he said setting the papers aside. “But I agree he was responsible for this morning’s attack. Contact Kumar Sayef, get him and another team member on the next plane to Djibouti. I want to have a word with Mister Smith, before the FBI does. That’s what I was about to call you about. The Feeb’s want you and Jesse in DC, for a debriefing with the Secret Service. It’s set up for next Saturday. They wanted it earlier, but the President himself intervened. He wants to meet with you, Jesse, Julie, Doc Talbot, and Doctor Burdick. He’s making a surprise visit with the troops on Tuesday in Afghanistan and asked if you could make it Saturday.”

  “Not a problem, Colonel,” Deuce said.

  “Are you sure, Commander?” Stockwell said with a grin.

  Behind us Julie said, “We’re getting married Sunday.”

  Deuce cringed, but recovered quickly. “We’ll just have to get there and back in one day, sir.”

  “I’ll arrange a Gulfstream,” Stockwell said. “Consider it a wedding present.”

  Then the screen went blank as he disconnected. “You think he’d mind an extra passenger?” I said.

  “Who?” asked Julie.

  “Jared Williams. I promised him I’d take him to DC on Saturday.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Deuce said
. Then he turned to Chyrel and said, “Get Kumar on there. Then you can turn in. I promise.”

  With just a few quick key strokes, Kumar’s face appeared on the screen. Kumar Sayef was one of Deuce’s first team members. He’s in his late thirties, but could easily pass for fifteen years younger. He’s a Sergeant First Class and was serving with the Army’s 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, commonly referred to as Delta Force, when he was recruited by DHS. Born in the upper Midwest to Pakistani parents, he was fluent in several Arabic dialects, as well as French, Spanish, and Italian. More than fluent in fact. Many Middle Eastern languages have subtle regional accents, which he’s also mastered.

  “Hiya Deuce,” he said with a decidedly Midwestern accent. “What’s up?”

  “Colonel Stockwell has a mission for you, Kumar. Chyrel’s making the arrangements as we speak and will send instructions to you in a few minutes. How’s your French and Ta'izzi Adeni Arabic?”

  “Aw, man. There’s a reason they call Djibouti the ‘Armpit of Africa’ ya know.”

  “In and out. Two days at the most. I promise.”

  “What’s the objective?” Kumar sighed.

  “Locate and capture Jason Smith, then bring him to see the Colonel.” The bewilderment on Kumar’s face was apparent, so Deuce added, “We have proof he was directly involved in this morning’s attempt to kill Jesse and me.”

  Kumar’s face turned hard. He was a team player and fiercely loyal to Deuce. “My go bag’s by the door. I’ll grab a bite to eat, while I wait for Chyrel’s instructions.”

  “Thanks, Kumar. Call Art, he’s going with you. Let me know when you land.” Art Newman has been on Deuce’s team from the start. Before that, he was on Deuce’s SEAL team.

  “Roger that, Boss.”

  The screen went blank and Chyrel said, “I have a Gulfstream 5 available out of Miami, taking a group of oil executives to Yemen. Leaves in an hour and lands in Aden, Yemen at 1900 local time. I’ve already added Kumar’s name to the flight manifest, as a French envoy from the Seychelles, in Miami on business. Art’s his Executive Assistant. They already have cover ID and background that’ll stand close scrutiny.”

  “Perfect,” Deuce said. “Send Kumar the information.”

  “On its way,” she said. “I also arranged a helicopter from Aden to Djibouti, through the French Embassy. They’ll be in the city shortly after nightfall.”

  “Okay, let’s all get some rest,” Deuce said. “The ball’s in motion and we won’t know anything until tomorrow evening.”

  “I have a little more work to do here,” Chyrel said. “Do you have a cot I can set up in here for tonight?”

  “Better than that,” I replied. “There’s a real comfortable hammock over by the casuarinas, strung between two palm trees. I’ll get it and have Trent put a couple of hooks in the walls to hang it in here. He’s already working on a partition to separate this end of the bunkhouse. Deuce, you and Julie can take the main house and I’ll bunk under the stars.”

  “No,” Julie said. “We can sleep on the boat. You shouldn’t have to sleep on the ground.”

  “Jules, I’ve probably slept more nights on the ground than not. Besides, it’ll be easier for Dawson to get to Deuce in the house. I’ll get a couple things out of the boat before everyone turns in.”

  I left the bunkhouse and went straight to Trent’s little house and told him what I wanted him to do with the hammock. He was busy cutting 2x4’s for the partition in the bunkhouse. Then I went to the Revenge and raised the bunk in the forward stateroom. I took out three small boxes and one of the fly rod cases, which I left on the table in the house. From the hanging closet in the bedroom, I grabbed a bedroll and blanket before returning to the group. Trent was in the bunkhouse with Chyrel getting the hammock strung up.

  I placed the three boxes on the table and opened the first one. I removed my Pulsar Edge night vision optics headset and handed it to Tony. Then I opened the other two boxes and passed out three Sig Sauer P226 nine millimeter semi-automatic pistols, and three magazines loaded with Parabellums to Tony, Jeremy, and Deuce, keeping the fourth for myself. Being standard issue for SEAL’s I knew Tony and Deuce would be more than familiar with them. Dawson being Coast Guard was more used to the Beretta M9, I figured.

  “You familiar with the Sig, Jeremy?” I asked.

  “Very much so. I own two.”

  “What about me?” Julie asked.

  “Deuce told me you’ve been practicing with the rifle. If anything happens, I want you up on the roof. My M-40A3 sniper rifle is on the table in the house. There’s a ladder next to the cistern and a small platform in the center of the roof. From there, you can see the whole island and every approach through the night optics on it.”

  “Why not Russell? He is a SEAL sniper.”

  “Deuce is also about twice your weight. Nothing personal, Deuce. But my roof is all that keeps the rain off me.”

  “None taken,” he said. “Jesse’s right. You can get up there a lot quicker than me and if something happens during my watch, you could get there that much faster.”

  I checked my watch and saw that it was after 2200. “Alright,” I said. “Everyone turn in, it’s late.”

  As Julie and Deuce headed for the house, Dawson went to the western bunkhouse. Trent had finished the wall with only one side paneled and Dawson helped him muscle it through the door at the west end. A few minutes later, they had it in place and Trent nailed it to the exterior walls. He said he’d put the paneling on the other side tomorrow.

  “You think he’ll try something here tonight?” Tony asked as I rolled my bedroll out on the ground by the table.

  “I doubt it. But forewarned is forearmed.”

  As he started toward the tree line he said, “See you in the morning.” It’d been a long day and I was asleep before my head hit the bedroll, Pescador already asleep lying next to me.

  The smell of coffee woke me. Deuce was kneeling beside me with two cups and extended one to me as I sat up. “Thanks,” I said. I took a swallow and looked around. It was dark and very quiet. Pescador looked at me, ears up.

  “Go ahead,” I said to the dog. He ran silently between the bunkhouses and lifted his leg on a rock by the pier.

  “Nothing,” Deuce said. “But we’ll keep a watch at night until he’s found anyway.”

  “You don’t like waiting any more than me, do you?”

  “No, proactive is my nature.”

  “Me too,” I said as I rolled my bedroll and blanket then sat down at the table. Deuce sat down across from me. “You’re not going back to bed?”

  “Nah, sun’ll be up in an hour. Besides, I snoozed a little on the way here yesterday.”

  We both heard a twig snap and were instantly down behind the table, guns drawn. Pescador had returned and was on full alert, the hair on his neck sticking up. He instinctively never made a sound, knowing that we’d heard the noise, also. Deuce pulled the Pulsar night optics down in front of his eyes and scanned the area to the east where the sound had come from.

  My eyes were accustomed to the dark, but I still couldn’t see what he could. He held up one finger and then two fingers down wiggling them and pointing right to left, letting me know it was one person on foot and they were headed toward the north end of the island.

  He pointed to me and then to the gap between the bunkhouses, made a gun firing signal with his left hand and moved his hand in a pushing motion, pointing toward the east side of the island.

  I nodded and moved quickly toward the gap, Pescador trotting silently beside me. I knew that Deuce would be able to cross the clearing unobserved with the night vision. He would then be in position to intercept whoever it was, after I got around ahead of him and started shooting, driving him back the way he came, toward Deuce.

  I made it between the bunkhouses and moved quickly between the pier and the casuarinas that surrounded this end of the island. From there I moved more cautiously, staying low and taking advantage of the cover.
Pescador followed closely behind me, like a dark, silent shadow.

  From where we heard the sound to where I was now moving, was about a hundred yards. I figured if he was moving stealthily, he’d be at least fifty yards in front of me now. But, I had no idea if he was equipped with night vision or not. I trusted that Pescador would alert me if he heard him getting too close.

  I moved another ten yards to a gumbo limbo tree with some low, thick branches. By now Deuce would be in position, so I motioned Pescador to stop, aimed toward the edge of the tree line along the water and started firing. I fired four shots in quick succession and heard someone crashing through the brush at the water line just twenty yards ahead of me. I came out from behind the tree and fired twice more, rushing forward as noisily as I could. Pescador ran just ahead of me, barking twice. His voice is a deep, menacing sound and carried through the darkness well. Whoever the guy was, he now knew he had an armed pursuer and a big dog chasing him.

  It was all on Deuce now. Shouts were coming from the bunkhouse, responding to the gunshots. I heard a door slam in the direction of the main house. Then I heard a loud thump and a moan.

  “Tango down!” I heard Deuce yell. I pulled a powerful penlight from my pocket and started toward him. More flashlights were sweeping the area.

  Not wanting to be taken for an intruder, I shouted loud enough to be heard at the main house, “Tango down! Hold your fire! Deuce has him down on the east side of the island!”

  By the time I got to Deuce, Dawson and Pescador were already there. The guy was on the ground facedown and Deuce had him pinned at the back of his neck with one knee, while the other was across his right forearm. Pescador had him by the sleeve of his left hand and it was stretched out away from his body. A scoped hunting rifle lay next to him, which I picked up. A moment later, Tony came running up with a length of quarter inch twisted sisal rope. He dropped down on the opposite side of the guy, next to Pescador and tied his left hand. Pescador released his sleeve and moved to the guy’s head, his rumbling, hot breath inches from the guy’s face. Tony brought his left hand up to the small of his back and when he grabbed the guy’s right wrist, Deuce lifted his knee. Tony quickly brought it up to his other hand and tied them together. Only then did Deuce stand up, still wearing the night vision goggles.