Show No Mercy

by Brian Drake

  Figg’s eyes bored into Lukavina without blinking. He tapped a finger on the arm of his chair.

  “Do we know where the mother is?”

  “She passed away recently. Breast cancer.”

  Figg nodded. “I want an update in 24 hours, Len. Get back to work.”

  “Okay.”

  “And call Steve Dane.”

  “I have him on speed dial, sir.”

  8

  Dane and Nina re-entered the hotel through a side entrance facing the Embarcadero, where they quickly stepped into an elevator for the fast ride to their suite. They looked like a bulldozer had rolled over them, but enough panic and concern over the events downtown filled the faces of those around them to allow their passage without notice.

  Straight to the shower where they inspected the cuts and bruises and helped each other return to some state of normalcy. Dane’s lungs hurt and he refused Nina’s offer of a drink. She poured some vodka and joined him on the bed where they sat up and stared at the wall.

  She finally turned on the television to have another sound in the room.

  Footage and reports of the attack played on every local channel. The talking head chatter and faux-analysis almost lulled them to sleep. When a reporter introduced an interview with a witness, they perked up.

  “There was a man and a woman running into the mall when we were trapped. They helped us get out and shot back at the attackers.”

  More talk and chatter about the identity of the couple, including whether or not they were with Homeland Security and did this mean the government knew about the attack but didn’t tell anybody?

  “Break out the tinfoil hats,” Nina said.

  Dane said nothing.

  “Official sources,” the reporter continued, “will not confirm or deny the mystery couple was affiliated with U.S. law enforcement, but this hidden camera footage clearly shows the bodies of several dead attackers being carried out by a different exit and loaded into unmarked vans. Terry, back to you. . .”

  The blather went on and on.

  “Can we find a reality show?” Nina said. “I need to replace some brain cells.”

  “We’re going to get our own conspiracy page on Reddit after this,” Dane said.

  “I hate technology. I hate people, too.”

  “I’m wondering how long till the phone rings.”

  “I’m surprised it hasn’t rung already,” she said. “Your buddies in the CIA are probably too busy to care about us right now.”

  “Give ‘em time.”

  She rubbed his leg. “Are you okay?”

  “I keep seeing her face.”

  “Who?”

  Dane told her.

  “She wasn’t the only one, Steve.”

  “She was the only one who looked straight at me. No matter what happens next, we’re going to find out who did this and hand them their guts. No mercy.”

  Lukavina watched the bullpen from his office. Nobody was sitting still. They talked on the phone, typed furiously on computer keyboards, consulted each other over discoveries. Boxes of files sat on several desks, all of them marked with Graypoole’s case number.

  The television still showed footage from San Francisco, nothing new, but a constant loop of what had already been played several times already. As usual, the talking heads had everything wrong, although one or two who claimed “insider” status with the intelligence community tip-toed very close to the Graypoole story because the FBI hadn’t been able to stop pictures of the graffiti in the mall from getting to the public.

  Lukavina used a remote to turn off the set, then took out his cell phone. He pressed a button. After two rings, Steve Dane answered, but didn’t say hello. He said:

  “I had no idea, Len.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “On another job we finished the night before. We met the client at the mall to get his payment and were on our way out when the bomb went off.”

  “Tell me everything you saw, Steve.”

  Dane left out no detail. “I don’t know what the bodies will tell you,” he concluded, “but I can positively identify the bomber.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Hans Mueller doesn’t have eyebrows.”

  “He was there?”

  “Watching the chaos like an arsonist who wants to see a building burn down. We tried to catch him but he got away.”

  “Gimme a second.” Lukavina started typing on his computer. He logged onto the Agency’s file database and punched in the German bomb maker’s name. The screen flashed with Mueller’s dossier, a picture of the man in the upper left corner.

  “Mueller was last seen in Libya,” Lukavina said. He scrolled through the file for more updates. “It was right after Graypoole was killed a year ago.”

  “Why wasn’t Mueller whacked when you had the chance?”

  “We didn’t get the chance, Steve. He vanished. Graypoole’s lieutenants all went underground. Dropped off the face of the earth. We’d figured Mueller contacted smugglers within the terror networks who helped him find a new place to hide.”

  “All right. How old is the dossier?”

  “Steve--”

  “If Graypoole’s group is back together and active again, everything is now outdated. We need fresh stuff.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “We’re going after Mueller. I’m calling my usual source as soon as I hang up. If he came out of hiding to plan this, he had to talk to people, who are talking to other people and we’ll find him.”

  “That’s our job, Steve.”

  “Then call it a freelance assignment at no cost to Uncle Sam.”

  “I don’t have the authorization.”

  “Get it, Len. We aren’t taking prisoners or leaving anything for the CIA to mop up. Get me? This kill is mine.”

  “I won’t be around to bail you out if you get into trouble. If Nina gets you into trouble."

  "You weren’t in the gunfight, Len. You didn’t see what I saw. This will be by-the-book. We aren’t letting anybody get away this time.”

  Lukavina sighed. The attack must have been worse than he realized for Dane to behave in this manner. One could talk about how he wanted to protect the innocent and fight for those without a champion, but Dane did more than talk. Witnessing those he’d sworn to protect get cut down by terrorist bullets had galvanized him into action. The enemy had no chance.

  “Don’t get yourself killed in the process, buddy.” It was the only thing the CIA could say. Once Dane was unleashed, there was no turning back.

  “Bet on it. One more thing. What’s the read on the graffiti? Is this going to be a zombie story or was Graypoole’s death exaggerated?”

  “We think it might be his kid.”

  “The deadbeat?”

  “We won’t know for sure until you crack Mueller.”

  “Send the info ASAP. We’ll make Mueller talk.”

  “On the way.”

  Lukavina hung up and examined his computer screen some more. Between his people and the sources Dane cultivated, he should indeed have something to tell Figg before the 24-hour deadline. And he’d convince Figg to authorize Dane’s freelance status for the mission. The man was putting his neck on the line; he deserved the back-up. It wasn’t the first time he was making a sacrifice for something bigger than him and it wouldn’t be the last.

  “Are you sure you’re up for more?” Nina said.

  “Last one,” Dane said as he dialed a number. He sat on the edge of the bed, the hotel robe falling open a little, while she remained stretched out behind him, her glass empty on her lap.

  The other line picked up.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me, Todd. Want some work?”

  “Always,” said Todd McConn.

  Todd McConn had worked for Dane in the 30-30 Battalion and now cultivated and brokered information to interested parties. He still worked in the field now and then, especially when Dane called, but spent most of his time at w
hat he called the Mississippi Strongbase.

  McConn was Dane’s main source of intelligence regarding covert matters.

  He had another source for weapons and equipment.

  “Hear about San Francisco?” Dane said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you know about Graypoole?”

  “Every snitch is scrambling on this one. Nobody saw it coming.”

  “I have a lead I need you to get started on,” Dane said. “Nina and me are coming to you first thing tomorrow.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “I need everything you have on Hans Mueller.”

  “The bomber?”

  “Yup.” Dane explained his encounter with the German on the streets of San Francisco and his chat with Lukavina officially bringing him into the case. “We need to find him and make him talk. Whether or not he remains in one piece when we finish remains to be seen.”

  “I’ll have a full workup by the time you get here. Bring me what CIA sends you so we can laugh about how wrong they are.”

  “I’m in no mood for jokes this time, Todd.”

  Jose Ramos stopped the car outside a small cafe.

  It was his first visit to Valencia’s Marina Real Juan Carlos, where the rich tourists parked their toys. A long jetty extended into the ocean, the slips alongside filled with yachts of various sizes and colors, from plain white to blue and gold. A pair of trim deckhands wearing white shirts and trousers cleaned the windows on one, while a pair of sunbathers lay out on the rear deck of another. An older woman in a black one piece lounged on a chair near the rail of yet another yacht, sipping a glass of wine.

  Seagulls fluttered about the parking lot near the café, which was before the jetty.

  Ramos took a deep breath. His pulse beat rapidly. He hadn’t been this exposed in over a year, since the assassination of his boss, but Graypoole the Younger had made a personal request to see him and Ramos couldn’t turn away. He and his wife, who operated as a pair, had been in hiding long enough. When news of the strike in San Francisco, with the associated signature, finally reached them, they hoped they’d be reactivated next.

  Sometimes dream do come true.

  He pulled a pair of binoculars from the glove box and carefully exited the car, looking around. No sign of anybody watching, and those hovering around were focused on their own leisure--loafing was hard work.

  Ramos was confident the call hadn’t been part of a set-up. But he took nothing for granted. After San Francisco, US intelligence would be combing the world for Mueller, Ramos and anybody else formerly associated with Graypoole.

  He stayed near the cafe building, following the back wall to the corner. The breeze carried the scent of salt and seaweed. The seagulls squawked behind him. Through the binoculars he looked at a yacht at the very end, the largest of all, gold in color, the sleek front end tapering almost into an arrow point. The railed sundeck had a table-and-chairs set, while the open-air bridge showed the latest in radar antenna. The tinted windows below decks hid what lay behind.

  Ramos zeroed in on the yacht’s name. Espinosa II.

  Graypoole Senior’s old yacht. No mistake.

  Ramos put the binoculars back in the car and entered the cafe. No bell above the door. Tables lined the panoramic windows which offered a view of the ocean. Only a few people sat at the tables, either couples or small groups, sipping coffee or wine and dressed in designer clothes.

  Ramos was well-dressed but not as young as the other patrons. French intelligence had nicknamed him “Carlos Jr.” for his resemblance to a young Carlos the Jackal. He hailed from Venezuela and had a chubby face and barrel chest like his faux-namesake. Unlike his namesake, nobody had captured—or killed—him yet.

  A woman sitting a few spaces down the counter had blonde hair and a big nose and wore a pink silk scarf around her neck. A disguise. His wife insisted on them. He sat down beside her.

  “Anything?”

  “All clear,” said Kassandra Ramos.

  He gave her the name of the yacht and told her to come in shooting if he didn’t return in twenty minutes.

  9

  Ramos entered the salon and froze at the sight of the man before him.

  The big yacht felt still below his feet. The deckhand went to a mini bar on the side and started pouring drinks. The salon was opulently appointed with lots of dark wood, leather, soft carpet, and gold trim. The port windows were open, letting in the afternoon breeze and the scent of salt and fish.

  Ramos opened his mouth to say something, but suddenly words failed him. His mind filled with flashbacks of the elder Graypoole singing the praises of his son and the rest of the crew instead seeing a wanna-be playboy who would never live up to his father’s hype. The young man before him, however, was not the same Mason Graypoole he’d known before. This Mason Graypoole looked fitter. He looked like he could handle himself in a fight. He looked like he’d put the past behind him and finally realized his potential.

  And what a tragedy he could not fight by his father’s side.

  “Hello, Jose,” Mason Graypoole said. “Thank you for coming.”

  Graypoole sat at a large table, the edges gold-lined. The tan leather booth matched the color of the table. The deckhand set a glass in front of Graypoole and handed one to Ramos on his way out. The galley door clicked shut.

  Ramos remained standing.

  “You’re looking good. Lose a little weight?”

  Ramos offered a weak smile in response.

  “Were you followed?”

  Finally Ramos said, “No.”

  “I know you took a big risk coming here.”

  “My wife and I have been running. And hiding. A lot. I know about Mueller and San Francisco. We’d like a chance to get even. Are you offering such a chance?”

  “Yes.”

  Mason Graypoole’s blue eyes were alive with the fire of enthusiasm Ramos had also seen in his father’s. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree at all, though it had taken time. Graypoole’s straight black hair touched the base of his neck and his blue suit hadn’t come off the rack. Savile Row and no mistake. Like his father.

  Ramos joined him at the table and raised the glass to his lips. He swallowed the bourbon. Knob Creek. At least it wasn’t cheap.

  Graypoole lifted a tablet computer from the cushion beside him and switched it on. “I’ve been planning this for over a year.” He showed Ramos the document on the screen. “First, San Francisco. Mission accomplished. Next, we target General Walker when he takes a trip to Rome.”

  “Isn’t he--”

  “No longer part of special operations. Walker was injured in a car accident. Now he rides a desk at the Pentagon to finish out his last few years before retirement.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then there’s the matter of Mr. Kader, who thinks he’s safe in Bahrain. I’ll shoot him myself.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Graypoole swiped left and showed Ramos the next document. “The last part of my plan is my favorite and involves you and Kassandra. There’s nobody else I want on the job.”

  Ramos took the tablet and read the document. He let out a whistle.

  “Is that a yes?”

  Ramos handed back the tablet and watched Graypoole’s eyes. His gaze didn't waver.

  Ramos said, “What do you want?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I need to know why we’re doing this.”

  “We’re picking up where my father left off.”

  “Starting with revenge?”

  “Yes, Jose. What else do we start with? I don’t know if I hate capitalism as much as my father, or if I agree global communism is a worthy goal, but I do know I want to get even. I want to kill the people responsible for killing my father. We start with General Walker. Then Mr. Kader, who sold out my father to the Americans. We knock them down like dominos, Jose.”

  “But what you want Kassandra and me to do—”

  “Just like Mueller, your job is more in line wit
h something my father would ask of you, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “Then what is your answer, Jose?”

  “We’ll do it.”

  “Good!” Graypoole’s smiled flashed again. “Can you leave immediately?”

  “We’ll be on the next plane,” Ramos said. “Not under our own names, of course.”

  “I’ll forward the information on the tablet to your email or wherever else you want it,” Graypoole said. “Good luck.”

  Ramos felt a warm glow inside.

  Gloomy gray clouds greeted Jose and Kassandra Ramos as they stepped off the Delta 737 at Seattle/Tacoma International Airport.

  They did not travel under their real names and also did not resemble the photos in the dossiers of the world’s intelligence and law enforcement agencies. Their departure had not been hasty. As two people on the run, always prepared to flee from one place to another, find another safe haven under extreme adversity, they always had bags packed and lived only with the bare necessities. In other words, they traveled light.

  Kassandra Ramos did not skimp on her disguise. She kept her usual wig-and-scarf combo, a brunette this time, the pink scarf wrapped a little tighter with the Seattle chill biting through her leather jacket.

  Ramos couldn’t remove any of his bulk but he could alter his face a little, with a goatee and mustache, each touched with a little gray, with the bottom of his right shoe filed off to give him a slight limp. The little things counted.

  They left the airport property in a rental and followed Highway 5 south. Graypoole had secured a safe house for them to operate from. Kassandra plugged the address into the car’s in-dash GPS and a voice with a British accent directed them along the route.

  Kassandra glanced at her husband, who kept his eyes focused ahead, scanning traffic. He wouldn’t talk during the drive. Because he was driving. He needed total concentration. It made her laugh. She didn’t understand why he performed the task with such intensity.

  She’d grown up with her father, a lawyer and Marxist, enthralling her from a young age with stories of the revolution in Cuba and elsewhere in the world where the people lived with equality and fairness; with shared responsibilities, material items, and property. Her writings for left-wing publications at Paris Sorbonne brought her to the attention of one of the many factions on campus recruiting students.