by Tom Fowler
“They’re dead.”
“Very much so,” Tyler said. “I stripped their comms, but I left their wallets. If they carried company IDs, I’m sure you and your toadies will have some questions to answer.”
“I’m not worried,” Braxton said.
“You should be. You were safe in Leavenworth. Out here, you’re on my radar. Fold your company, stop all this bullshit, and we’ll call it a day.”
Braxton rolled his eyes to the empty room. “You’d really let me go?”
“Maybe,” Tyler said. “You’d be looking over your shoulder regardless.”
“I’m a man of many interests, John. You’d do well to stay away from my operation.”
“Can’t do it. Tell you what, Leo—walk away from Jake Smith and Sara Morrison. Then, you and I can hash out the rest with less collateral damage.”
“I figured it was a matter of time before you got involved,” Braxton said. “You always turn up where you’re not welcome. What option could a do-gooder with so much blood on his hands have?” Tyler didn’t reply. “You’re always going to oppose me because you know we’re so much alike . . . and you hate it.”
“No,” Tyler said, “I just hate you.” He broke the connection. Braxton scowled at his phone before setting it back down. Tyler’s prior involvement in all this had been peripheral. An annoyance. Now he killed three men and presumably rescued Sara Morrison.
His greater involvement deserved a swift and brutal response.
26
“That went well,” Sara Morrison said after allowing Tyler a couple minutes to cool off.
“Considering I never wanted to talk to him again, I think it went better than I could’ve expected.”
“I didn’t know it was possible to blast so much testosterone through a cellular connection.”
Tyler grinned in spite of himself. “You wouldn’t let me talk about you like you weren’t here. I needed another outlet.”
One more exit remained on I-95. They would reach Fort Meade in under ten minutes. Tyler enjoyed the silence, though he also thought of some questions for Sara. It had been at least a decade since he set foot in the Pentagon and probably about as long since he talked to a high-ranking civilian. In her position, she knew more about Hexagon than anyone outside the company. “What do you think Braxton is after?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“We both know he didn’t start a company so he could be a nice guy to the government. Even if his name isn’t on the deed, he’s been involved from the start. It means he wants something, and he’s promised a piece of whatever it is to Kent Maxwell and Victor White.”
“You served with the man . . . you’d probably have a better idea than I would.”
Tyler was about to answer when he spied a gray SUV in the rearview. The phones. Braxton could be tracking them. He eased the 442 into the far right lane and backed off the throttle a bit. The car coasted along at the speed limit of 65. For most Maryland drivers, obeying the posted speed meant standing still. Sure enough, vehicles drove by on the left, some of them swinging out from behind Tyler to pass him. The SUV moved closer on the driver’s side.
Sara ducked in her seat as Tyler moved his right hand to his gun and pulled it from the holster. He kept it hidden under his left arm as the gray vehicle approached. When it did, Tyler saw it was a Chevy Suburban, not the similar GMC Yukon. A man and woman cruised past him. Tyler holstered the pistol and handed Sara the phones. “Toss them out the window. I should’ve thought of it sooner.”
“You were concerned the SUV was another Braxton crew?” She cranked the window down by hand. It amazed Tyler how many people didn’t know what to do when no power switch was available.
“Yes.” He sped up as Sara heaved each of the phones into the trees lining the highway. Once she’d discarded them all, Tyler moved a couple lanes to the left and gave the car more gas. “You mentioned I’d know more about what Braxton’s looking for in Afghanistan. I’m afraid I don’t. If you read our files, you know I had my issues with him, but I never knew him to be a thief.”
“You think it’s money?” Sara said.
Tyler shrugged. “It makes the most sense. He might have some hidden opium stash over there, I guess. Maybe even gold. Cash makes the most sense. We disrupted a lot of shady operations. MPs and CID took money and contraband when we found it. Braxton could’ve been skimming the till, and I never would’ve known.”
“Any idea where he might hide it?”
“None,” Tyler said. “When I left, the writing was on the wall for him. He ended up with more time than I thought, but I don’t know if he could hide something major. There were a lot of eyes on him then.” Tyler paused. “You must see the reports the company files.”
“They come in to my office, yes,” Sara said.
“Nothing you can glean from there?”
She shook her head as Tyler took the exit onto Route 32. The back gate of Fort Meade lay only a few minutes away. “It’s all pretty vague. As far as we can tell, they’re doing what we’re paying them to. Considering the men involved with the company, though, I’m concerned about off-the-books stuff.”
“I would have the same worries.” A couple minutes later, Tyler and Sara showed their IDs and entered the installation. They drove a few blocks before Tyler pulled into a small parking lot outside a nondescript one-story building. A large pickup truck waited. As Tyler turned off the ignition, Rollins climbed down to meet them.
He was about ten years younger than Tyler. They’d overlapped a few times in the service, including once on a deployment to Bagram Air Base. Rollins stood a little taller than Tyler, though they probably weighed about the same. He was black and wore his hair very short. Tyler recalled his ability to sneak around virtually anywhere undetected. He also remembered Rollins as quiet and private; he didn’t even know the man’s first name. The two bumped fists. “Thanks for meeting us,” Tyler said.
Rollins nodded. “Miss Morrison, I presume?”
“Mister Rollins,” she said. “You’re my designated bodyguard?”
“Not the term I’d use, but I’ll keep you safe.”
Sara collected her bag from the backseat. “I hope you’re not expecting any Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner moments.”
“You’re not my type,” Rollins said with the shadow of a grin playing on his face.
“Thank you, Mister Tyler,” Sara said. She gave him a brief hug before walking around to the passenger’s side of the pickup.
“I hope this doesn’t last more than a few days,” Tyler said.
“It takes as long as it takes,” Rollins told him. “I don’t hate Braxton like you do, but I get it. You need me to be more than a babysitter, call me.”
“I will. Thanks.” They bumped fists again, and Rollins returned to his pickup. Tyler watched them drive away before he got back into his car.
Tyler pulled the 442 into his driveway. Despite helping Sara, he felt conflicted. He hadn’t found Jake yet. How could he tell Smitty he saved a woman who works at the Pentagon while the man’s own son still ran for his life? Killing three of Braxton’s men would help from a numbers perspective, but it also put Tyler in the crosshairs. Finding new psychos to replace the deceased trio—not to mention Bobby—wouldn’t be hard for a man like Braxton.
He turned the car off and walked into the house. Lexi stretched out on the couch, watching some TV show Tyler couldn’t identity. She paused it when he came in. Her smile of greeting turned to a frown of concern. “What happened?”
Tyler realized he must have worn the stress of the past few hours on his face. “I left this morning to watch someone’s house. Should have been easy . . . if a little boring.” Thirst twisted his stomach, and Tyler grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. He guzzled most of it before continuing. “It turned into a hell of a lot more.”
Lexi sat up and glared at her dad. “Explain.”
“I was sitting on someone’s house,” Tyler said. “I’d just gone to check
the perimeter when I got a phone call. Sara Morrison . . . she works at the Pentagon. We’ve talked a little about Braxton and his company. She was concerned some men were coming to her house to attack her. Turns out she was right.”
“And you dealt with them.”
“Yes.”
“They’re Braxton’s men?” Lexi asked.
“They are. He kept calling them after everything went down. I’d taken their phones, so I answered. We had a brief conversation.”
Lexi smirked. “I’m going to guess it didn’t go well.”
“Depends on how you want to interpret it,” Tyler said. “I pissed him off, which I always enjoy. It put me on his radar, though. I don’t know if he suspected my involvement before, but he knows it for sure now.”
“All right.” Lexi’s head bobbed slowly as she took it all in. Tyler understood it was a lot to unpack. “What happened to this Sara Morrison person?”
“I dropped her off with an old army buddy. He’ll keep an eye on her.”
“You’re sure Braxton won’t be able to get to her?”
“Positive,” Tyler said. He downed the rest of his water and grabbed another. “Want one?”
“I’m good.”
Tyler carried the bottle to the couch and sat beside his daughter. Worry still pulled her brows into a frown. “I’m not going to tell you not to be concerned. You’re an adult. I’d like to avoid bullshitting you.”
“Good,” she said. “I wouldn’t believe you.”
“Braxton’s probably going to come after me at some point. I’m getting in the way of him going after Jake and getting whatever he’s after in Afghanistan. I’ll be smart, though. I’ll wear a vest, and you know I don’t go anywhere without a gun.”
Lexi didn’t respond for a few seconds. Then, she blew out a deep breath and said, “When you left Patriot, I kind of hoped you’d settle into a normal life.” She held up her hand when Tyler started to answer. “I’ve realized it’s not who you are. You can fix old cars all you want, but you’ll never be just a mechanic.”
Tyler smiled. “I wish you would’ve told me a few days ago.”
“A man’s gotta be who he is,” she said, with no mimic of her grandfather’s voice like last time.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re wise beyond your years?”
“I’ve had a couple pretty good teachers,” Lexi said.
As soon as Braxton got off the phone with Tyler, he ordered a full dossier on the man. Persistence was normally a virtue he admired. Not in the case of John Tyler. He questioned orders, couldn’t let things go, and got way too attached to a few disposable civilians. His tenacity brought the end of Braxton’s career. He’d been angry and bitter at first, and thinking about Tyler still stirred those emotions. Working with Maxwell and White to form Hexagon offered a reprieve, especially in the financial sense.
Then, Tyler cropped up again.
Dealing with Jake Smith turning into a rat had been bad enough. Braxton thought the young soldier possessed a good deal of potential. Like Tyler, however, he saw the world in black and white. Both his antagonists lacked a certain moral flexibility. Now, both needed to be dealt with. His men were close to finding Jake. They’d almost nabbed him once. Catching him was inevitable.
Tyler, however, proved a thornier problem.
He was smart and experienced. While he didn’t dwell in the shades of gray Braxton favored, Tyler never had any problem killing the enemy. He was a blunt instrument and a damn good one. Sending a couple operatives to round him up wouldn’t be enough. Braxton needed a plan, and he required information to make a good one.
John Tyler lived in Baltimore. He’d bought the house from his father during his active-duty years and settled there once he retired from the service. For the last year or so, his daughter Alexis lived with him. Braxton remembered meeting the girl a few times when she was young. Now, she was eighteen and about to begin her freshman year at the University of Maryland. Tyler’s ex Rachel—the two never married—sat in prison for a litany of crimes.
Ezekiel Tyler, retired naval master chief, lived in an active adult community. The place featured manned gates at each entrance and a full-time security staff. Assaulting it would be possible but would also attract attention. Family constituted a vulnerability, but Zeke would be difficult to reach.
If Tyler wouldn’t play ball, Braxton decided he would go after Lexi. He wondered how the man’s idealism would play out with his daughter’s life on the line, and the thought made him smile.
Kent Maxwell knocked on the door and rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time a phone call roused him in the middle of the night. He thought about blowing it off, but it required his attention. He knocked on the door again when no answer came. A light near the front of the house went on. Footsteps neared the door, locks disengaged, and it swung open.
“What the hell is going on?” Arthur Bell demanded.
“It’s three AM,” Maxwell said, “and you got me out of bed. You tell me.”
“Get in here.” Bell turned and walked toward his living room. “Close the door behind you.”
Go to hell, Maxwell thought, but he shut and locked the door. Bell owned a nice house. Maxwell’s shoes sank into the plush beige carpet. The walls were freshly painted. The granite counters in the kitchen gleamed in the light. In the main room, leather furniture dominated the floor space, and a large TV hung on the wall. “What’s so important I had to drive to goddamn Potomac?” Maxwell demanded. Bell handed Maxwell a Blackberry. “You need a phone upgrade? Call your IT department.”
“Read the email.”
Maxwell opened the message. It was from Sara Morrison and time-stamped two hours earlier. A chill crawled up his spine.
* * *
Staff,
* * *
I will not be in the office over the weekend and probably next week. You can reach me on my cell phone, so I’ll be around, and I can WebEx into any important meetings.
Keep this to yourselves, but there was an attack at my house tonight. I have an idea who’s responsible, but I’m not naming names here. Our work is important, and the man who sent three killers to my house is trying to undermine it.
Don’t worry about me. I’m safe, and I’ll continue to be. Let’s carry on our mission and make sure force and threats hold no sway in our organization.
* * *
V/R,
* * *
Sara Morrison
* * *
“The hell is this?” Bell said. He snatched the phone back from Maxwell and threw it onto the couch. “The bitch is still alive.”
Maxwell never heard anything from Braxton about the raid at Sara Morrison’s house. This meant it went poorly. Had things gone according to plan, Braxton would have called him to gloat and go over the next steps. Silence meant failure, which he would stew over and process alone. “First I’ve heard of it,” Maxwell said.
“I don’t care. What are you doing to fix it?”
“Did you call me because you’re pissed at not getting a promotion?”
Bell’s mouth opened, then his jaw clicked shut. “No,” he said to try and recover. Maxwell wasn’t buying it. “This is about our plan. We both benefit from it.”
“The plan hit a snag,” Maxwell said. “It happens. We dealt with it overseas, and we’ll deal with it now.”
“You’d better,” Bell said, settling onto the sofa.
“It really sounds like you’re looking after yourself.”
“Sure, I am. So are you, Mister Maxwell.”
“I’m looking after a company.”
“Same difference,” Bell said, waving a dismissive hand. “You’re motivated by money and power just like I am. Get it right next time. I’m not waiting forever.”
Maxwell glared at Bell. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning other people are in the same boat as you. You think you’re the only guy who has money and a squad of ex-soldiers? Guys like you are a dime a dozen around here. If you can’t
manage to get rid of Sara Morrison, I’m sure someone else can.”
“Someone else?” Maxwell smirked. Then, he drew his pistol and shot Arthur Bell in the head.
Blood and brain bits dripped down the white wall behind Bell’s body. The house sat in a posh neighborhood. Expensive price tags, lots of land. An area where meeting neighbors would never be a priority. Still, someone could have heard the report. In the ritzy suburbs in the middle of the night, no one would mistake it for an old car backfiring.
Maxwell wiped down anything he may have touched in Bell’s house. He slipped out the door. Other houses remained dark. He strode to his car and drove away.
27
Tyler left the house early the next morning. He didn’t want to miss Rick Rust being home. The guy was probably still bitter over Bobby, but his service record suggested he wasn’t one of Braxton’s typical black-hearted minions. Tyler caffeinated himself before sunrise and hit the road while the first rays broke through the clouds.
Rust’s Laurel street was lifeless. Other than a man walking a dog on the next road, no one so much as milled about. Tyler got out and checked his surroundings. All quiet. No curious eyes. Rust’s house was dark. Tyler hopped the three-foot chain-link fence. He padded across the backyard and up the porch steps. Tyler crouched at the rear door and peeked in the back window. It was an unoccupied kitchen.
Among the tools he kept from his days at Patriot Security was a snap gun. It made picking locks quick and easy, especially for someone like Tyler, who never showed any aptitude for the old way. He popped the door open, drew a real gun to replace the lock picking one, and padded into the house.
Rust kept a kitchen so neat he could work in a restaurant. Everything was put away to the point only a coffee machine and large hand mixer sat atop the counter. The sink held no dishes or utensils. A narrow closed door, probably leading to the basement, was to the right of the stainless steel refrigerator. An open doorway led to a dining room.
