Hellfire- The Series, Volumes 1-3

by Leigh Barker

  He leaned forward. “Hopkins, take me to the apartment, will you?”

  Hopkins nodded without turning. He was old, or at least looked it. He had white, close-cropped hair and wrinkles, so was probably very old. Baxter didn’t mind, old people were usually very loyal. A good thing.

  He sat back again and thought through every step of the job, skipping nothing, assuming nothing. There was a clear path in all tasks, from polishing the silverware, to procuring the right women. Do it right. First time. Every time. It was less a rule, more a way of life for him.

  Now, once again from the beginning.

  Ethan slipped his cell back into his pocket and blew his breath out slowly.

  “Problem?” Kelsey said, and put her coffee mug down on the files covering the polished table in the empty diner.

  “Yeah, Secret Service picked up Chuck.”

  Kelsey lifted the mug and dabbed her napkin on the ring it had left on the papers. “That was fast.”

  “Yes. And that’s another thing that’s been bothering me.”

  “The informant?”

  Ethan nodded. “I wondered when he’d crawl out of the woodwork again.”

  “He?”

  He looked at her for several seconds, frowning. “Right. I’ve been assuming it’s a he.”

  “You know what they say about assume, asses and you and me?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “But you’re right, it could be a female.” He moved the files around with his fingertips. “I was fixated on Philips, Mancini and Rayford. Obvious candidates. But what if it’s somebody else?”

  “Have to be somebody close. Somebody who knows what we’re doing rather than reading what we’ve done.”

  He nodded and looked up at her slowly.

  She flushed. “You don’t think it…” She pointed at herself.

  He chuckled. “More likely to be me than you. You’ve got NCIS written on your DNA.” His smile faded. “Not you.”

  “Then who?” Her eyes opened wider and she shook her head. “No way. Not Lisa. No. It doesn’t add up. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Then that leaves Dryer or Teddy.”

  “And Mancini, Rayford and Philips.” She picked up her coffee mug and stared at it. “But Lisa knows everything that’s going on, she has to. It’s the only way to have context for her analysis.”

  “And the Three Stooges wouldn’t know about Chuck. But, hey, it’s probably not her,” Ethan said. He wasn’t convincing.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “About Lisa?” Ethan asked.

  “No, about Chuck.”

  Ethan picked up his coffee. It was cold. He signaled the waitress by raising his mug and put it down. “If they shoot him, I’ll give him a good funeral and maybe say something nice. If I can think of anything. Otherwise…” He shrugged. “We just do what we’re doing.”

  “What? You’re just going to leave him in custody?”

  “We could stage a jailbreak, I guess. Might get a bit messy. The Secret Service have guns.”

  “No, you know what I mean.”

  “Chuck’s a decorated US marine with a spotless record. They’ll have to let him go.” He frowned. “Unless they do a psych eval. Then he’ll be busted and spend the rest of his days in a rubber room.”

  “What happened to leave no man behind?”

  “Chuck will be offended if we butt in. He’ll be okay.” He smiled. “And anyway, that leave no man behind stuff is for guys who don’t owe me two hundred bucks.”

  She shook her head in disbelief, then saw his eyes. She smiled. “You’re going to ask Dryer to intervene, aren’t you?”

  The coffee arrived.

  Baxter put his brown leather briefcase on a low table and waited for the concierge to call up to Senator Wakeman. The reception looked more like a hotel foyer than an apartment block. Polished wood floors with white leather couches and a totally unnecessary wrought-iron balcony above the huge reception desk. It was designed to look expensive, and it did.

  He was in H Street, just a few blocks from where Chuck was spending some quality time in a bare room with men who moisturize.

  The uniformed concierge put down the phone and smiled politely. “Senator Wakeman will meet you at the elevator, sir. Fifth floor.” He raised his eyebrows. “Penthouse.”

  Who cares.

  Baxter whistled softly, because he felt it was expected, then took the elevator up to the fifth floor as instructed. The door slid open and Wakeman was waiting for him. He put out his hand in an undeniable reflex borne out of years of meeting and greeting.

  “Come in,” he said, and led the way inside.

  The apartment matched the reception for over-the-top luxury. More wooden floors, oak. Huge oversized windows looking out over the city. And oak furniture, enough that the place looked like a retail outlet.

  Wakeman pointed at the sideboard. Oak. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Thank you. I’d love a whiskey and water.”

  Wakeman stopped for a moment. “British?”

  Gold star for observation.

  “Yes, though I’ve been here long enough to pick up a bit of an American accent.”

  “Can’t hear it myself.” Wakeman poured two large drinks from a crystal decanter and took them to a small dining table next to one of the windows. “What can I do for Mr. Carter’s representative?” he asked, and handed a glass to Baxter.

  Baxter sat opposite and took a sip and nodded appreciatively, then put the glass down. “It’s rather delicate, sir.”

  Wakeman put his glass on the table and leaned forward. “I’m intrigued. What’s Christian been up to? No good, I’ll bet.” He grinned a toothy, politician’s grin.

  Baxter lifted his briefcase and held it over the table. “Do you mind?”

  Wakeman waved him on.

  Baxter put the case down and opened it with the lid facing Wakeman. Then he closed it. And Wakeman’s jaw dropped.

  “This is all rather awkward,” Baxter said, and flinched. “Not my usual style at all. Please forgive the crudeness of it.”

  Wakeman’s eyes were wide and staring at the gun in Baxter’s pale, manicured hands.

  Baxter held it up as if showing it off. “It’s a Beretta 92 FS.” He turned it over slowly. “Beautiful weapon, isn’t it?” He looked past Wakeman at the window. “I can’t hear any city noise. Is this charming apartment soundproofed?”

  Wakeman nodded dumbly without taking his eyes off the gun.

  “Oh, good. I’ll not be needing this, then.” Baxter lifted a silencer out of his case and showed it to Wakeman. “Unbalances the gun.” He pointed the Beretta at the senator’s chest, then gave a little start. “Oh, where are my manners?” He nodded at the glass on the table. “Thank you for the drink. It really is an excellent malt.”

  He smiled and fired twice. Both bullets hit Wakeman in the heart and threw him and his chair backwards. Baxter got up, took another sip of the excellent malt, walked around the table, picked up a cushion from the couch and bent over Wakeman’s body. He covered the senator’s head with the cushion and put another round behind his ear.

  He put the Beretta back in the briefcase, then collected the spent casings from the polished wooden floor. He finished his drink, took the glass to the open-plan kitchen and washed it before returning it to the sideboard. Then he used the tea towel to wipe every surface he’d touched since he’d arrived.

  The concierge put his newspaper out of sight under the desk when Baxter came out of the elevator.

  “This really is a superb building,” Baxter said, crossing the reception area and stopping in front of the desk. He looked around. “And secure?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “Cameras?”

  The concierge pointed at a tiny camera positioned discreetly below the useless balcony.

  “Just the one?” Baxter said, and raised his eyebrows. “Is that really enough?”

  “Yeah, one of those wide-angle things. Great definition.”
/>   “Really?” Baxter looked around again, admiring the foyer. And checking that they were alone. “I’d love to see it.” He smiled. “I’m thinking of putting security in my home.”

  The concierge hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Ah, why not? Come on.”

  He led the way through the door behind the reception desk, down a short corridor and into a tiny room no bigger than a broom cupboard. There was a small rack of electronic units and a computer. He tapped the keyboard then stepped aside for Baxter to squeeze in and see his arrival in crystal clarity.

  “Yes, that is exactly what I need.” He glanced at the concierge. “Does it… oh, what do they call it? Oh yes. Does it stream off-site?”

  “No, not necessary. This is a fireproof room.” He smiled again. “And who wants to steal pictures of old men coming home?” He sniffed a laugh.

  Baxter leaned away from the concierge to avoid the spatter, raised his pistol slowly and shot him in the head.

  He stripped the drive from the server and put it in his briefcase, went back to reception and checked it was deserted. He crossed the foyer and stopped and looked around. It was, as he’d originally thought, truly luxurious. He could perhaps live here when he retired. That would be nice.

  Dryer shook his head emphatically. “I said you had no authority to send a civilian to spy on the President. What did you expect to happen?”

  Ethan eased back into the chair in front of Dryer’s big desk. He’d done the chivalry thing, now it was his turn to get the chair while Kelsey sat on the corner of the desk. Anyway, it hitched up her skirt and showed off her legs. And they were worth showing off.

  “And why am I just hearing this? You were supposed to keep me apprised of your progress,” Dryer said, a little sulkily.

  “No progress,” Ethan said, taking his eyes off Kelsey’s legs now she’d seen him looking. “For Chuck, kinda the opposite.”

  “Now you want me to call the Secret Service and ask them to release your friend. Because you ask?”

  “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”

  Dryer looked over Ethan’s head at Teddy leaning on the windowsill again. He got a shrug in response. He looked up at the ceiling, then breathed a resigned sigh. “Okay. Okay! I’ll make a call. But I’m not promising anything.”

  “Obliged,” Ethan said.

  “Now where are we with this?” Dryer said.

  “Not much further,” Ethan said. “I still think Faraj will try for the President.”

  “That’s the Secret Service’s purview,” Dryer said. “And they seem to be on the ball. They picked up your man pretty damned quick.”

  Ethan and Kelsey exchanged looks, and hers said don’t say anything.

  He didn’t.

  “There is something,” Dryer said, then waved his hand as if to dismiss it.

  “May as well say it now,” Kelsey said.

  “There’s been a shooting. A senator.” Dryer glanced at Teddy.

  “Wakeman,” Teddy said. “Big player in military procurement for the government.”

  “Not military himself,” Dryer added. “So doesn’t fit the profile.”

  “Bit of a coincidence, though,” Ethan said.

  Dryer shrugged. “People get shot all the time. This is America.”

  “How?” Kelsey asked.

  Dryer looked at Teddy again.

  “Looks like a hit,” Teddy said, and raised an eyebrow to show his puzzlement at it. “Right in his own sitting room. Hit man killed the concierge too. Wanted the surveillance tapes.”

  “And he had no connection to any of the victims?” Ethan asked, twisting in the chair so he could see Teddy.

  “Don’t think so,” Teddy said, and looked away. He should know. “I’ll check.”

  “Obliged,” Ethan said, and Kelsey realised that it was code for yeah, do that.

  Ethan stood. “You’ll remember to make the call?” he said to Dryer, and got a nod in response. “And check any links to the senator?” Teddy nodded too.

  Kelsey followed him out of the office and they stopped outside the lab. Ethan looked at the closed door. He could go in and question Lisa, but if she was the mole, then he’d just tip her off that they suspected. And if she wasn’t, then he’d torpedo a useful FBI resource. He walked on.

  Teddy stayed and looked at the closed door for a while then pushed himself off his perch on the windowsill. He stood in silence in the middle of the small office, looking directly at Dryer, who was leafing through a file.

  Dryer looked up. “Is there something else?”

  Teddy leaned on the back of the empty seat. “Ethan is my friend.”

  “Yes, I know that. What about it?”

  “But first and foremost I work for the bureau. And my loyalty to it has to come before any personal considerations.”

  Dryer put down the folder and waited.

  “There’s another possibility.” Teddy took a long breath. “I don’t think it’s got legs, but I have to put it on the table.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “There’s another connection here.” He was silent for a moment while he considered how to say it. “Okay. Top to bottom.” He walked around the chair and sat down. “You know that SecNav has political aspirations.”

  “It’s Washington. The janitor has political aspirations.”

  “Not for the White House.”

  Dryer looked surprised, but masked it quickly. “I know he likes to aim high, but president?”

  “It’s an open secret.”

  “Not to me it isn’t.”

  Teddy pointed at the pile of paperwork on Dryer’s desk. “You’re buried in that. That’s why you have me.”

  “Okay, he wants to run the country.” Dryer rolled his eyes. “So what?”

  “This case could be SecNav’s ticket.”

  Dryer frowned. “How so?”

  “Think about it. Some unseen terrorist starts killing our senior officers. It’s on the six-o’clock news every night. Whoever catches him will be a hero.”

  Dryer leaned forward.

  “And the first assassination?” Teddy waited a beat. “Navy. And that puts the investigation right on his desk.”

  Dryer shook his head.

  “General Davy was an outspoken supporter of the Democratic nominee and would’ve backed him for re-election,” Teddy said. “He was well liked and respected, so his opinion would matter a lot. Especially to the opinion makers.”

  “Not much of a link,” Dryer said.

  “No, and that’s why I didn’t mention it before. Two coincidences don’t make a conspiracy. But three?”

  “Three? What’s the third?”

  “Not what, who. Wakeman.” He let Dryer catch up. “Wakeman is the Democratic nominee. And a shoe-in to win. Now he’s been murdered. Well, the second string is far less certain. Most people think she’ll implode before the race is half done. That’ll leave the Republican nominee with a clear run.”

  “SecNav… McKinney?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting.” Dryer drummed his fingers while he thought about it.

  “And SecNav brought in his old friend to run the investigation.”

  “Yes,” Dryer said, “that struck me as odd. Gill is a marine. Okay, an ex MP, but not like us.”

  “But he’s a good man,” Teddy said. “Decorated, respected at all levels, and well liked. By most.” He stood up. “Now you have the other option. For what it’s worth.” He crossed to the door. “And for my money, it’s not worth much. It’s just a coincidence.”

  Dryer watched the door close. “A coincidence,” he said out loud. “No such thing.” He reached for the phone.

  Christian finished reading the file again and sat back in his chair. Wakeman was gone. A tragedy. What was the country coming to when a man could be gunned down in his own home? But that left Bernstein. He was a powerful man and would make sure one of his own people got Wakeman’s position on the procurement committee. Then he would be back where it started.


  Another senseless killing? He shook his head. It would cause a stink he’d be able to smell all the way down in Texas. And somebody would make the connection with his failed bid. Inevitable.

  Then it was as well he had another option. He looked at the file on the computer screen. Some al-Qaeda nut was killing generals. He might turn to killing politicians. In fact, he would.

  There was a problem. He scrolled back up the file until he had a picture on the screen with a label telling him this was Master Sergeant Ethan Gill, US Marine Corps.

  He leaned forward and examined the picture. A marine through and through. He had that hollow face of the super-fit, intelligent lively brown eyes, and a high-and-tight haircut. But it was the confidential psychological profile that held Christian’s attention.

  This was a man whose IQ scores were way up there with Mr. Bright as a Button. Resourceful, persistent, a quick thinker, a leader of men… the list went on, but it just convinced him more that if his plan was to succeed, this soldier-boy had to go MIA.

  He swung the monitor around as Baxter came in and stood in front of his desk. “Have you read this file?”

  “Yes, sir. You said to read it. I read it.”

  “This is Master Sergeant Ethan Gill,” he said, then waved at one of the chairs. “Sit down, man.”

  Baxter sat. Right on the edge of the seat with his back ramrod straight.

  “I want him gone,” Christian said, and tapped the screen.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How will you find him?” Christian said.

  “I won’t have to, sir, he’ll find me.”

  “Let me know when it’s done, will you?”

  “When would you like him to… be gone, sir?”

  “As soon as you can arrange it.”

  “Very well, sir.” Baxter stood. “It will take two days.”

  Christian looked up. “Impressive.”

  “Not really, sir.” He turned and left.

  “How do you know?” Kelsey asked.

  “Because I’m a highly trained professional,” Ethan said, without opening his eyes or moving from his comfortable position slumped in the passenger seat of Kelsey’s Suburban.