by Tom Fowler
He twisted. Something in the guy’s wrist snapped. He managed a brief cry of pain before Tyler swatted the knife from his grip, then gave his foe a chop to the throat, staggering him. Tyler let go of the man’s arm and slammed his head into the railing. His skull bounced off it with a satisfying bong, but the lights were still on. Tyler kicked the guy’s head into the metal again, and it put him out.
The partner appeared in Watson’s apartment door. Like his coworker, he was over six feet, but this man carried a lot more weight on his frame. He frowned at the sight of his fellow goon unconscious on the landing. “What the hell?”
“He started it,” Tyler said with a shrug. “Be smarter and hit the road.”
The new assailant didn’t listen—they never did—and led with a couple of wild punches. They were long and slow, and Tyler dodged them easily. Here was a large fellow used to one punch ending a fight. By his fourth haymaker, the guy’s breath resounded off the nearby walls and doors. Following another swing, Tyler waded in, striking the unsurprisingly soft solar plexus. The man’s breath now came in a ragged gasp. Tyler walloped him twice in the face, then led him to the stairs and tossed him down. He bounced off the brick wall at the bottom and lay still.
“Mike Watson?” Tyler called from the doorway to apartment 3A. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll live,” a voice croaked from somewhere inside.
“I’m coming in,” Tyler said. “Those two assholes won’t bother you anymore.”
Inside, a pair of dining room chairs lay toppled over, a few framed pictures lay in ruins of kindling and glass, and the living room coffee table had been knocked flat. Watson sat against the wall near his TV. Blood seeped from some cuts on his face, and he held his arms loosely around his torso. “Small comfort right now,” he said. Watson was a wiry black man, a little taller than Tyler, and looked to be an age peer of Jake. A pair of glasses lay smashed beside him.
“I work for Jake’s father,” Tyler said. “We’re trying to find him.”
“Lots of people looking for Jake right now, it seems.” Watson held his hand out, and Tyler pulled him upright. “Who the hell were they?”
“I’m not certain, but I’m pretty sure I know who they work for.”
“Let me guess,” Watson said, wiping a hand at his facial cuts. “Someone in the military?”
Tyler nodded. “Former, but yeah. You know what Jake did?”
“Not really. He told me some bad shit went down overseas. I know he told somebody, but I didn’t press him too much about it.”
“Probably for the best,” Tyler said. He wondered who Jake unburdened himself to and if it contributed to his current dire circumstances. “You have anywhere you can go?”
He bobbed his head. “Got a brother down near DC.”
Tyler frowned. “I’d avoid family. The men looking for Jake seem good at finding people.”
“Fine,” Watson said. “I’ll get a hotel a little ways away, then.”
“Good. Pay in cash.”
They walked out together after Watson spent a few minutes packing a bag and shaking his head at the damage to his apartment, mostly the destroyed pictures. “I’ll need to call the management company,” he said.
At the top of the stairs, Tyler inclined his head toward the two goons—one still unconscious and the one down the stairs starting to shake off the cobwebs. “And an ambulance. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me out of it, though.”
Watson grimaced as he regarded the two men who’d been abusing him mere minutes before. “Sure, I’ll think of something.”
Tyler wished him good luck and walked down the stairs. The guy he’d tossed down worked himself onto all fours. As he moved past, Tyler kicked him hard in the head, bouncing his dome off the wall and sending him to dreamland again. Tyler patted the unconscious man down and found his wallet. The name didn’t mean anything, but he carried a company ID for Hexagon Security. Tyler left the cash for Watson, who pocketed it as he walked by.
Once outside, Tyler got back into his car. He looked at his hands, clenched and unclenched his fists. It was amazing how easily he fell back into the old mindset. The old habits. A man’s got to be who he is. “Dammit, Dad,” Tyler muttered. He grounded his thoughts on the current situation. Today’s assault showed Maxwell or his minions were upping the ante on finding Jake and didn’t care about collateral damage.
Tyler fired up the 442. He needed to find Jake before another goon squad did.
Sara Morrison called her deputy Arther Bell. They were both working from home today. Each went into the office at the Pentagon two different days a week to deal with classified matters, but most of their duties could be done from their houses. Sara was surprised how much she liked dodging the hellish commute and working from her spare bedroom. It needed some work before it could be considered a proper office, but it would do for now.
Bell answered the video call request. As usual, he didn’t turn on his video, so Sara kept hers dark, too. “How are you, Arthur?”
“I’m all right,” he said in his deep voice.
“I wanted to ask you about Hexagon Security,” Sara said. “It’s a private military contractor you signed off on. You remember?”
“Hexagon . . .” Sara heard the telltale sign of Bell flipping through papers. She hoped he only took unclassified documents out of the building. “OK, yeah. I remember. What’s going on?”
“Did you vet the executives?”
“Sure,” Bell said.
“Victor White and Kent Maxwell?”
Bell paused a beat or two and said, “Those sound like the right names. Why?”
“They seemed familiar to me, so I did a little digging. Turns out both served with a man named Leo Braxton. Do you recognize the name?”
“Not offhand, no.”
“Braxton was a colonel until he got busted for a couple war crimes in Afghanistan. One of the men in his unit reported him. Maxwell and White were his chief toadies.”
“He’s in jail, though,” Bell said.
Sara sighed. “He was. The old boys club strikes again. Turns out they released him a few weeks ago . . . five years early.”
“Wow. I didn’t discover those details.”
“Apparently not,” Sara said. “Braxton’s barred from having anything to do with the government besides paying his taxes. I want to be sure he’s not involved with Hexagon.”
“What do you want me to do?” Bell asked.
“I want you to look into it. Be thorough. If he is involved, we’re canceling their contract right away.” Bell didn’t reply at first. “Arthur, you there?”
“I’m here. I’ll get right on it.”
“Good,” Sara said. “Let me know as soon as you can as long as it’s no later than the middle of next week.” She broke the connection. Bell normally ran down things like Braxton, but it’s possible he could have missed the man’s release. It wasn’t widely disseminated, almost as if the army were embarrassed about it.
Sara typed a memo about the phone call, saved it, and moved a copy to cloud storage. Whatever the outcome of Bell’s inquiry, there would be an official government record about its beginning.
Sara scrolled through an old personnel file for her next call. She found John Tyler’s cell number, hoped it was still correct, and dialed. “Hello?” a man’s voice said.
“Is this Mister Tyler?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know me. My name is Sara Morrison, and I work at the Pentagon.”
“I’m sorry,” Tyler said.
“I said—”
“I heard you, Miss Morrison. I was offering condolences.”
Sara smiled. “It’s not so bad. The reason I’m calling is about a couple of men you served with. Kent Maxwell and Victor White.”
Tyler sighed into the phone, and the hiss forced Sara to move the phone away from her ear. “What about them? If you’re asking for a letter of recommendation, I can only provide whatever its opposite would be.”
“Let me guess. Hexagon Security?”
“Yes,” Sara said. “How did you know?”
“I ran into a couple of their recruiters earlier. They . . . weren’t successful.”
“So you don’t know anything about what the company might be doing?”
“What’s your job at the Pentagon?” Tyler asked.
“I have a long and boring title. Let’s just say I deal with things like special operations and private military contractors.”
“Then, it sounds like you should know what they might be doing.”
“I’ll cut to the chase, Mister Tyler.” Sara found a lot of former longtime service members terse on the phone. Tyler could certainly be counted among their number. “I know about your history with Leo Braxton.”
“So?”
“Did you know he recently got out of Leavenworth?”
Tyler didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Finally, he asked, “Are you shitting me?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“After what he ord . . . after what he did? How does this happen?”
“I wish I could give you a good answer. He had years left to go. Someone commuted his sentence. He was popular in his day.”
“I’m aware,” Tyler said in a flat tone.
“Have you heard from Braxton?” Sara said.
“No, and I don’t expect to. He hates me because he thinks I put him in prison. I guess it’s true from a deluded point of view, but his own actions and orders landed him there.”
“You’re surprised he’s out?”
“Of course,” Tyler said. “When they threw him in there, they should have melted the key and buried the slag a hundred feet underground.”
“Looking at his file, I’m inclined to agree.” Tyler remained silent. “All right. I was checking into their company and figured I’d give you a heads-up.”
“Thanks, Miss Morrison.” Tyler broke the connection.
Sara set her phone down. She perused Tyler’s file. After reporting Braxton, he left special operations and finished his final year of service as a wheeled vehicle mechanic. Since then, he’d had nothing to do with the armed forces or any of his former army colleagues. Sara couldn’t ignore the connection between Maxwell, White, and Braxton, and she wondered if the two lackeys only kept the seat warm for their former commander. John Tyler had good reason to hate all three men.
Maybe he could solve the Hexagon problem for her.
13
Jake looked at his burner phone. It was time for a new one. He changed devices any time he got a threatening text, but he also swapped them out every few days as a precaution. Tech-savvy red teamers could be among the people after him, and Jake didn’t intend to provide an easy target. His dwindling funds complicated the issue. Jake couldn’t risk going to an ATM, and he wouldn’t resort to things like robbery to raise some cash.
He needed the whole sordid mess to wrap up soon. Maybe it was time to stop playing defense and go on the offense. It was something to stew on later. Jake survived so far, and he didn’t know how well going after his former service mates would go. He didn’t want his father to stand over his grave wondering what went wrong.
After checking his cameras and seeing the coast was clear, Jake slipped out onto the streets. It was a muggy July evening. He pulled his baseball cap low on his head and scrutinized everyone who came near him. After about a five-minute walk, Jake ducked into a random convenience store which advertised phones on its window.
The guy ahead of him in line berated the cashier over not having change for large bills. He waved a couple of them around like it would alter the outcome. From the rear, Jake thought the guy wore a mediocre suit. If he had a large enough bankroll to flaunt a few hundred-dollar bills, he could have put them toward some nicer threads. When the rude fellow continued his tirade, Jake broke in. “Move along, pal. It’s not all about you.”
The man spun on him, red-faced. He looked to be about forty, sported a dad bod, and probably suffered from self-inflicted high blood pressure. The guy was about to say something, but he stared at Jake, and his mouth hung open. So it went for bullies. They lost their bluster when they ran into someone who wouldn’t knuckle under. “Something you want to say?” Jake asked. The belligerent man frowned and stuffed his money back into his pocket with shaky hands and stormed out.
Jake looked down and saw a fresh hundred-dollar bill on the floor. He covered it with his shoe and waited a moment, even when the cashier prompted him. When he saw a Lexus sedan leave the parking lot, Jake crouched, picked up the money, and held it in his fist. If he ran into enough self-impressed assholes, maybe he could get past his temporary money problem.
A burner wouldn’t cost enough to use the large bill, so Jake paid with his existing cash. He could get change somewhere else. Jake carried his new purchase out of the store. He’d wiped the old phone back at his hotel room. He crossed the street, walked behind a pickup truck, and slipped the old mobile into the bed. If his pursuers managed to track it, they’d wind up disappointed. Jake maintained a constant vigil on the way back to his hotel. He chose a longer route for the return trip, even doubling back on himself once, but no one followed.
Several minutes later, Jake duplicated his setup. The surveillance app displayed the camera feeds on his new phone. The few numbers he stored populated his contact list. He looked at the aliases for Sam and Mike and hoped they’d avoided being dragged into his mess. Jake held his thumb over the pizza shop disguised as his father’s phone number. Hearing his voice would be good for Jake. Telling him things were OK—relatively speaking, at least—would be good for the old man. This was a new phone. No association to him.
Jake took a deep breath and decided against it. If his old crew tapped his dad’s phones—something easily within their wheelhouse—he’d be handing over his new number. It would then be easier to find him. It wasn’t worth the risk. Jake pondered taking the bus a few miles away and using a pay phone . . . if he could still find one.
It was something to think about another day.
Maxwell looked up to find two men in his office doorway. Judging by the shiner on Blake’s face, things didn’t go well. “Come in,” he said. He heard the exasperation in his own tone, and he knew they would, too.
Blake and Stanton sat in his guest chairs. Both looked like they’d gone a couple unproductive rounds with a heavyweight. Maxwell hired both of them without serving with them. They came recommended. Now, he wondered if he’d need to clear out some dead weight and recruit better men. The company’s best were in the Middle East, but even they’d been unsuccessful in their quest.
“We went to see Watson,” Blake said.
“He’s Jake’s friend,” Stanton added.
Maxwell slapped his desktop, and both men straightened in their chairs. “I know who he is. I want you to tell me what happened.”
“We got there all right,” Blake said. He was the younger and smaller of the two. Less experienced. Maxwell heard he was a diligent soldier and good shooter, and so far, he’d seen neither of those in action. “Watson was home. Stanton went in to talk to him, and I stayed by the door.”
Maxwell’s eyes flicked to Stanton, who nodded. “The guy said he didn’t know anything. I beat on him a little, but he didn’t talk.”
“Did you escalate from there?” Maxwell said.
“Didn’t really have a chance,” Stanton said. His face was a mess of bruises, and dried blood remained caked in his hair. Whoever took him out would be a skilled operative. A thought burned in Maxwell’s mind, and he didn’t like it.
Blake shifted in his seat. “Some guy came up the stairs. I told him to buzz off. He started asking questions, so I went after him with a knife. He . . . uh . . . got it away from me and took me out quick.”
“I came out, then,” Stanton said. “Blake was lying on the carpet like his head got bounced off the railing. I went after the guy but couldn’t
connect. Next thing I know, I’m going down the stairs. I hit the wall and . . .” He spread his hands.
“One guy did this?” Maxwell asked. They both bobbed their heads. “Describe him.”
“Middle-aged,” Stanton said. “A few years older than you, I’d guess. Not too tall . . . under six feet. Pretty average build, though I could tell he kept in shape. Not a weightlifter or anything. Dark eyes.”
For a big meathead, Stanton turned out to be pretty observant. Maybe he could stay on the payroll. Maxwell called up another photo of John Tyler from the end of his military career and showed it to both of them. “This the guy?”
“Yeah,” they both said in unison.
“Don’t worry about who he is,” Maxwell said, preempting the question he knew would be coming. “We’re going to deal with him. You’re dismissed.”
They both shuffled out of the office. Once they were down the hall and out of earshot, Maxwell picked up his phone and dialed Braxton. “It’s Tyler, sir. He’s continuing to be a pain in the ass.”
“It’s all he knows, Maxwell.”
“I think we need to escalate against him.”
“Do what you need to do,” Braxton said.
14
Tyler arrived home and tossed his keys onto the small table in the entryway like normal. He needed normality now, even if it came in small gestures and tiny bits. Lexi didn’t appear to be anywhere on the main level. Tyler grabbed a beer from the fridge, plopped onto the couch, and took a long pull.
There wasn’t enough booze in the house to make up for Leo Braxton being out of prison. How could it happen? During their time serving together, Tyler always knew Braxton was popular with the brass. He got results. His unit killed terrorists. They repelled the Taliban. When Tyler discovered the real horrors of Braxton’s leadership, he reported what he knew. It was his duty to the army and the rest of the men he served with. Every flag officer should’ve been happy to be rid of the former colonel who tainted the service.
