The Kill Order

by Robin Burcell

  Gilroy stopped where he was, a mere twenty-five feet away from the prize. She stood there like a cornered rabbit—no, like a cornered little punk rocker, her back to the fence, waiting for the inevitable.

  He smiled, aimed his weapon at her. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

  “Then why do you have a gun?”

  “There’re some other people around here I don’t trust. They do want to hurt you. Kill you, in fact. Trust me. We want you alive.”

  She took a step back. “I don’t care. I’m not going with you.”

  “Not an option. You’re trapped.”

  “And what if I start screaming?”

  “You scream, or make any noise in general, and they’re gonna spray this area with bullets and kill you. Me? I’m wearing a ballistic vest, so I might survive. It’s a chance I’m gonna have to take. You? Not a good option.”

  She glanced behind her, then up, probably assessing if she could make it over the chain-link fence. “I think I’ll take my chances.”

  The last thing he wanted was for her to make any noise, or the military would be killing him. “Not a good choice.”

  She simply stared at him.

  He didn’t like that look in her eye. The deadly calm. And for a moment, he was actually worried. “You think you’re some badass, because you’re all dressed in black? I’m really going to enjoy this.”

  Her hand came up quicker than he realized, and just when his mind registered that it was moving, that he should do something, he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. He stumbled back, dropped the gun, vaguely aware that she was approaching him.

  “I might not be a badass,” she said as she walked over, picked up his gun, aimed it at him. “But I’m good with a knife.”

  And it was only then that he realized this girl was much older than the one he was looking for.

  Not the same girl at all.

  50

  Lisette kept the gun trained on her would-be killer as he gripped at the knife wound in his arm, the blood seeping through his fingers.

  “I wasn’t really going to shoot you,” he said.

  “Then you shouldn’t have pointed your gun at me,” she replied as she dug her Bluetooth out of her pocket and tucked it on her ear. “Did you copy all that?” she asked Marc. The Bluetooth had been on the entire time.

  “A bit muffled, but yeah. Where are you?”

  “Took the catwalk to the construction site.”

  “Why there?”

  “He got here a little faster than I was counting.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  She eyed the man on the ground, recognized him as one of the fake U.S. marshals. “What’s your real name?”

  “Charles Gilroy.”

  “You’re the guy who pretended to be WitSec.”

  “I’m bleeding all over the place. An ambulance would be nice.”

  She looked down at his arm. “Hold it tight. It’s not arterial.”

  “You a medical doctor, too?”

  “If I wanted to kill you I would have aimed for the throat.”

  “Aren’t you just the super-duper agent.”

  “Don’t make me regret restraining myself,” she said as Marc drove up. He got out of the car, walked over. “What took you so long?”

  “Had to take care of the tail. We better hurry. Those operatives from the military are about to make entry into the apartment. Pretty sure we don’t want to be around when they figure out she’s gone. And boy wonder’s working his magic from a new spot.”

  Marc leaned over, grabbed Gilroy by the arm, pulling him to his feet. Lisette kept her weapon aimed on him as Marc patted him down, then walked him back to the car, using his keys to pop open the trunk. “Get in.”

  “You serious?”

  “About not getting blood on my upholstery? Yes. There’s a rubber mat in the trunk. So much easier to hose off.”

  Gilroy stood there, not moving. Marc leaned in closer. “Either get in or I’ll put you in. And unlike my partner, I am not likely to restrain myself.”

  Gilroy climbed into the trunk.

  “You should put some pressure on that wound.”

  “Go fu—”

  Marc slammed the lid closed. “Your funeral.”

  Lisette slid into the passenger seat as Marc got behind the wheel, started the car, made a three-point turn, then drove out. She looked over at him. “Everything else go okay?”

  “So far, so good.”

  “What are we going to do with him?”

  “Get him patched up for starters. Why the knife?”

  “He was pointing a gun at me.”

  “I mean why didn’t you shoot him? You had a gun.”

  “He said he was wearing a vest. And I thought we didn’t want any noise.”

  Marc sped off in the opposite direction as the apartment building, putting plenty of distance between them and Gilroy’s men.

  “What happened to the tail he put on you?” she asked.

  “The car they were driving in was reported stolen. Apparently there was a computer glitch at the Department of Motor Vehicles.”

  “It happens.”

  “As do anonymous calls to the police.”

  She leaned back in her seat, smiling, wondering what else Izzy had up his sleeve. Finally, something was going right.

  51

  Pocito, Arizona

  Griffin and Tex were trapped. The two vehicles with Parker’s men had pulled up to the west of the house, cutting off their escape to the hill and the car that was hidden up on the dirt road.

  Griffin and Tex barely managed to escape to the back of the bunkhouse as they heard the car doors opening and closing, then someone asking, “Where are they?”

  And Rico’s wife, Charlene, saying, “They killed Mr. Quindlen, then ran off. I didn’t see what direction.”

  “What about you?”

  Then Hilary, sobbing. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Hil,” Charlene said. “Let’s get you inside. Where are the dogs?”

  “In the house.”

  “Good. Safe there. You’ll be fine.”

  Griffin turned to Tex, whispering, “What the hell were you doing on the chicken coop?”

  “Damned dogs came after me.”

  “Don’t suppose there’s any goats left in that pen we can use for a distraction.”

  “Griffin?” Sydney’s voice on the radio. “What’s your location?”

  “By the bunkhouse.”

  “Copy. You need to move away from there. Get to the other side of the road.”

  “Repeat?”

  “Move away from the bunkhouse.”

  “What the—”

  “There’ll be a small explosion to cover you two running across the back of the bunkhouse. Meet me on the east side of Charlene’s trailer in five, four, three, two, one. Now!”

  A boom sounded, like an acetylene bomb going off, and sure enough, Parker’s men ran toward the back of the property, toward the sound.

  Griffin and Tex raced across the road and found Sydney standing by the trailer. “Carillo,” she radioed. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

  “Ready.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  The rev of the engine, then Carillo racing down the hill. And when Parker’s men ran alongside the bunkhouse, Sydney stepped out slightly, taking aim at the open door of the old, dilapidated building. She fired. The bunkhouse exploded, flames shot up, and wood went flying. Griffin felt the heat on his face as the force of the explosion carried the hot air.

  And then Carillo pulled up, and the three of them raced to the car.

  The moment they were in, he hit the gas and drove out the main road, gravel and dust kicking up behind their vehicle.

  Griffin glanced back,
saw Charlene on her porch, watching the flames.

  “Meth cookers,” Sydney said. “Leaving so many volatile chemicals in one location. Not safe.”

  “You and Carillo were supposed to go to the car to wait.”

  “Yeah,” Carillo said, glancing over at him as he sped up the road away from the complex. “We did meet up. But we saw those headlights, knew they’d get here before you and Tex could get out. And when it comes right down to it, Sydney’s just not that good at following orders anymore.”

  52

  Washington, D.C.

  There were certain things in life that McNiel enjoyed immensely. Working a good case successfully and seeing the fruits of their labor were high on his list. In this instance, Lisette, Marc, Donovan, and Piper were sitting around the table of their latest hotel room, listening to the final moments of Izzy’s manipulation of the SINS program. McNiel, however, was walking into the National Security Council meeting, as he had finally agreed to provide the whereabouts of Piper, but only to the entire council. And as expected, Parker Kane was present. Unbeknownst to the council, Lisette, Marc, and Donovan had audio via McNiel’s phone.

  “Gentlemen,” McNiel said, watching Kane, who sat next to General Woodson, as though he hadn’t just lost a handful of men on a failed mission. “First, my apologies. There was a reason I couldn’t tell you about where the witness Piper Lawrence was located, due to what I suspected was a leak in this council. Fearing for her safety, I wasn’t about to release her location until I knew it could be done safely. That time has come.”

  “About time,” Woodson said.

  “First, however, there is something I’d like you to listen to. It’s a recording of a conversation made this morning by one of my team.”

  He placed a digital recorder on the table, hit play.

  “Quindlen’s dead. They got away with the files.”

  Parker Kane jumped up from his seat, saying, “This is an illegal wiretap.”

  Woodson grabbed him by his arm, pulling him back into his seat, saying, “Shut up, Parker.”

  The voice on the recording continued. “The ATLAS agents blew up Quindlen’s meth lab. And all your product, too. They got away.”

  And then Parker Kane’s voice clearly saying, “You find them and kill them. No matter what it takes. I’ve got a goddamned National Security Council meeting to get to.”

  “But—”

  “Just get it done.”

  McNiel switched off the recorder, then addressed the council, saying, “Are there any questions?”

  53

  That evening, over celebratory pizza and soda for Piper, but beer for everyone else, Lisette informed her that she and her brother would be placed in witness protection together.

  “I know it’s not what you want.”

  Piper gave an exaggerated sigh. “After what I’ve been through, I think it will be a welcome change.”

  “The good news is that it’s only temporary, until we finish ferreting out everyone involved in this affair. Izzy is fairly sure that he can manipulate the SINS program so that even if someone were to torture you, you would be useless.”

  Marc raised his brows. “You can talk torture, but I can’t? How is torturing her good news?”

  “What I mean is that she is no longer on the most wanted list. One day if she wants to go to Venice on her own dime, she can.”

  Piper smiled, then held up her soda for a toast. “To all of you. Thanks.”

  They raised their glasses, but then Lisette noticed Piper’s expression turning somber. “What’s wrong?”

  “Mr. McNiel. He was in trouble because of me. What’s going to happen to him now? And the rest of you?”

  “Not to worry,” Lisette told her. “ATLAS is once again in the good graces of the president, and McNiel back in charge.”

  Donovan waved for them to be quiet. “Kane’s picture’s on the news.”

  He turned up the volume, as the newscaster said, “. . . Soon-to-be appointed deputy national security adviser Parker Kane was found dead in his home of a single gunshot wound to the head. According to a police department source, who spoke on condition of anonymity, Parker Kane’s maid reported that he’d gone into his office, closed the door, and a few moments later, she heard a gunshot and called the police. A political source states that Kane, a former CIA department head, had recently learned of some allegations made against him while he worked for the CIA. Although all evidence points to a suicide, the police are investigating.

  “And in other news . . .”

  54

  Sydney had slept most of the way home, grateful when the plane finally landed.

  Tomorrow she, Griffin, and Tex were expected to report for a full debriefing. Tonight, the only thing she wanted to do was take a hot bath, then go to bed.

  As they walked out of the airport, the three heading to the parking garage, Tex said, “I have no idea where I even parked.”

  Which reminded Syd that Griffin had driven her to the airport. “You know, I think I’ll just take a cab home.”

  “I can drive you,” Griffin said.

  She thought about it for a second, then shook her head. “What I need right now is some alone time.”

  “Can we talk about this?”

  And Tex said, “I’ll just step over here. Out of the way . . . Not listening.”

  Sydney watched him walk off, then turned to Griffin. “What happened the last few nights . . . I’m sorry, Griffin. I’m just not ready to forget.”

  “I know we need to talk.”

  She eyed the baggage carousel as it started up and everyone gathered around, waiting for their luggage. “This goes a bit beyond personality differences or things you can work around. I just . . . I don’t know how long it’s going to take me. How do you fix something that I’m not sure is fixable?”

  He looked at her, and she could tell he didn’t have a clue what to say. And that was the problem.

  “Friends tell each other things,” she continued. “Important things. We start there and work our way up.”

  “I can live with that.”

  “Good. See you around.” She started to walk off, stopped, then retraced her steps. “Friends also do things together. Dinner, movies, that sort of thing . . .”

  “Dinner?”

  “Perfect. Tomorrow. Seven. Don’t be late.”

  Fact or Fiction?

  Unsolved mysteries, cyber terrorism, dead journalists, intersecting cases, including many that involved the BCCI, the black ops bank used by the CIA and my inspiration for BICTT, the Black Network bank first introduced in Face of a Killer. We’re talking conspiracy theory at its finest. So what’s true and what isn’t? In this case, there’s more fact than fiction.

  In 1991, Danny Casolaro, an investigative journalist, was allegedly investigating government corruption and the Inslaw Affair (detailed below), intending to write a book on the subject. In August of that year, the day after Casolaro had met with an informant who was going to break the case open for him, he was found dead in his West Virginia motel, having cut his wrists numerous times with a knife. His notes were never found. His death was ruled a suicide.

  There are far too many unanswered questions about Casolaro’s death for it to be anything but suspicious, and so I based my first fictional journalist on him. For further reading, try The Last Circle: Danny Casolaro’s Investigation into the Octopus and the PROMIS Software Scandal by Cheri Seymour. And for a more academic take on the subject, try Conspiracy Theories: Secrecy and Power in American Culture by Mark Fenster.

  Of course one can’t look at the Casolaro case without examining the mysterious death of David Webb several years later. Webb, a Pulitzer Prize–winning investigative journalist for the San Jose Mercury News, wrote a series of articles detailing the CIA’s involvement in drug running that was connected to their Iran-Contra venture
s. Webb was exiled from journalism as a result of the series. He later turned the series into a book and had allegedly found new evidence of further exploits involving the CIA, which he was beginning to put together for publication. On December 10, 2004, Webb was found dead in his home of not one, but two gunshot wounds to the head. The coroner ruled it a suicide. Even with two shots, the conclusion appears to be accurate. For the purposes of my story and my second journalist, I decided otherwise. Webb’s series of articles can be found on the Internet under the title The Dark Alliance. He also wrote a book by the same name.

  In my current book, I combine two premises. One, that the U.S. developed a case management software that they used to spy on other countries, and two, that there are computer chips found in computers around the world that could compromise our nation’s entire infrastructure and safety, if someone had the key to open the secret back door built into it.

  Both premises are true.

  In the 1970s, the U.S. government contracted with Inslaw Corporation, a small IT company, to develop a software program called Prosecutors Management Information System, or PROMIS. This was a cutting-edge program for case management that could process and integrate information from a vast number of different computer programs and databases. It could be used to track anything from terrorists to credit card spending, depending on how one used the software. It was developed by former National Security Agency (NSA) programmer and engineer Bill Hamilton, owner of Inslaw. The program was sold to at least eighty countries, both legally and through the black market. Unbeknownst to the rest of the world, and even Mr. Hamilton, a back door was allegedly built into the program by computer prodigy Michael Riconosciuto—at the request of U.S. intelligence, so as to allow widespread computer espionage against other countries.

  And there the tale might have ended, if not for the U.S. deciding that it did not owe Inslaw or the Hamiltons millions of dollars for their program. In 1991, Riconosciuto was arrested on illegal drug charges. He states it was because he provided information to the Hamiltons for a civil suit against the U.S. More than twenty years later, when I began to research this book, Riconosciuto was still imprisoned on those drug charges. He’s gotten more years than the average meth cooker gets, which makes me wonder why his sentence seemed a bit excessive (not that I don’t think illegal drug manufacturers should be imprisoned for lengthy terms).