Ghost Target

by Nicholas Irving

  “I don’t, but I understand what you’re saying,” Harwood said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Ain’t nothing to be sorry about. Just life. Do what you gotta do to survive. This one man started posting my picture on Backpage and he’d drive me to different places. He’d take half and I’d get half. Usually a hundred dollars. Fifty for each of us.”

  “Tell me about school. I don’t like hearing about the other stuff. I saw enough. It’s not right what happened, you know that, right?”

  “I do, Reaper. I know. But what can I do now. I’m ruint.”

  “You’re not ruined, Monisha.” This time, Harwood reached across the gearbox and brushed a tear from her face. She was sitting with her back to the door, legs crossed Indian style. “You’re a little girl that got pushed into the big world way too soon. But you can overcome that.”

  “I don’t know how. You know, I tried the school thing. Was super good at math. Give me numbers and I can give you answers.”

  “What’s fifty divided by twenty?” Harwood asked.

  Monisha rolled her eyes. “Please. Two point five. If we gonna play this game, take it up a notch, Super Mario.”

  “Nine hundred divided by twelve.”

  Without hesitation she said, “Seventy-five. We still on level one.”

  “Okay, I believe you. So, when we’re done with this little ordeal, we get you enrolled somewhere. A good school where you can take advanced math. How’s your reading?”

  “I can read. Damn well read all them tweets about you,” Monisha said. She smiled.

  Harwood did, too. “Yeah, I guess you did. You’ve got to get rid of the ghetto talk though, Monisha. It’s not your past that defines you, it’s what you do with your past to make something of yourself.”

  “That what you believe? Killing all them people—excuse me, those people—in Afghanistan. You’re going to do something with that?”

  “Well, that’s not all I did, but yes. I do plan to write a book. I’m defending our country. I’m accomplishing my goals. I can help you accomplish yours.”

  Monisha stared through the windshield. “That’d be real nice,” she whispered. “But you’ll probably just forget about me once this is all done.”

  “I can promise you that I won’t.”

  She nodded. “Trade.”

  “I was passed around some farms in the Maryland countryside. I could lift some heavy stuff so this one farmer kept me the longest. His wife ran the foster kids, took the money from the government. There was this girl, Lindsay. She was about three years older, but like my mother. She cooked, cleaned, and counseled, as I called it.”

  “That’s a good woman. Taking care of you like that.”

  “She was a good woman,” Harwood said.

  “Was? What happened?”

  Harwood was silent for a long time, looking out the same windshield as Monisha. He thought the windshield might even symbolize that he and Monisha somehow saw life through the same lens. Starting out with little or nothing and not wanting a whole lot more, but just enough. His heart ached for Lindsay and what had happened to her and he realized that his heart ached for Monisha in the same way. A childhood lost. Innocence stolen too soon.

  “It’s okay, Reaper. We traded.”

  “She was killed. I was your age. Fourteen. She was seventeen. Our ‘mother’ dressed her up and sent her to the barn. I became protective and waited one day. She’d had enough. I’d had enough. The man came in, started unzipping his pants. Her back was to him. He walked up to her. She turned around and lashed out with a pitchfork. The man stepped back, pulled a pistol out of his pocket and pumped two rounds into her body. She stood there for a few seconds like nothing had happened. Like a freeze-frame. Then she just crumpled to the ground, like she was trying to lay down.”

  Harwood coughed. He realized he was remembering something he had tucked away and protected. They were quiet for a long time, until Monisha asked, “What happened to the man?”

  “I think you know,” Harwood said.

  “He met the Reaper. He was the first bad guy you killed?”

  Harwood nodded. “The pitchfork ended up in his throat. I checked on Lindsay, but she was gone. One of the bullets passed through her heart. She had always told me to run when I got the chance. Once I was sure he was dead, I ran.”

  The sun was beginning to beat down on the car. The memories had made Harwood even more exhausted. His eyelids were drooping, heavy with the need to sleep.

  “I’m your Lindsay,” Monisha said. “You saved me.”

  Harwood looked at her serious countenance. Face set, lips tight, eyes tearing up.

  “Not yet, but I will,” Harwood said. “I promise.”

  “I feel safe with you. Maybe for the first time ever.”

  Harwood laid his head against the window and wasn’t sure if he had fallen asleep or not when he heard the noise.

  “What’s that?” Monisha asked, pointing at the river.

  “Oh, man. That’s an experimental helicopter and they’re looking for us. I heard it in Macon.”

  The twin-bladed helicopter zipped low along the river three hundred yards in front of them. As it passed, it pulled up into the air and slowed to a hover, lifted above the fog, and turned in their direction.

  Harwood grabbed Monisha and his ruck, and they raced out of the driver’s side toward the warehouse fifty feet away.

  The helicopter minigun began spitting a hundred rounds a second as he pulled Monisha toward him to shield her with his bulky frame.

  He was too late. One of the rounds pierced her fragile, ninety-pound body, a straight through-and-through. They reached the warehouse and Harwood blew through the door, ran fifty yards inside behind some unused concrete culvert pipes, and laid Monisha on the floor.

  “Hurts,” she said.

  Harwood placed his pistol on the floor then opened his rucksack and retrieved some gauze, quick-clot, and Betadine. He inspected the wound. She was shot in the leg. There was a lot of blood and he prayed her femoral artery hadn’t been nicked. He pulled a tourniquet from his aid bag and snapped it above the wound, cranking it down tightly, until the blood flowed to a trickle. He then yanked an IV bag from his ruck and stuck the needle in her arm, placing the bag on a four-foot-high culvert pipe. He poured Betadine on the wound, stuffed the quick-clot in both sides, and then wrapped gauze around her leg.

  “Hang in there, Monisha. Come on. Be strong for me,” Harwood said.

  Her eyes were dim and oddly she had a slight smile on her face, which was when he noticed the other wound. There had been so much blood he hadn’t seen the gut shot. He went to work on that quickly, as well, repeating the process. It was a searing, glancing blow that drew blood. He checked his rucksack and found two more IV bags. At this rate, he’d run out in thirty minutes.

  Harwood grabbed his pistol and ran back to the door of the warehouse. Staring through the grimy steel mesh window, he saw Ramsey Xanadu standing next to Lanny’s now burning Mustang. Xanadu checked inside as best he could, but the heat was too fierce. He looked in the distance, away from Harwood, and quickly began running toward the helicopter. Blades chopping into the sky, the helicopter lifted away and sped to the east.

  Harwood returned to Monisha’s side, kneeling. She looked at him with weak eyes.

  “Happy. For the first time,” she muttered, then coughed.

  “You’re going to be okay, Monisha.” Please don’t die.

  “I’m okay,” she whispered. Big eyelashes fluttered as she looked him in the eyes and said. “I’m okay. Thanks … brother.”

  “Hang in there, girl. Don’t go anywhere on me,” Harwood ordered. “Stay with me, girl!”

  Monisha’s eyes went blank.

  CHAPTER 20

  General Buzz Markham was not a happy man. Having this morning flown in on his luxury 737 extended-range jet, he had helicoptered to his Tybee Island compound from Hunter Army Airfield. He stood on the back deck and watched one white fishing boat troll amid a flock of
seagulls diving on schooling bluefish. Another boat had just sped away to the south and east. The water was churning as if it were beyond boiling temperature. He smelled the musty scent of ocean life mixed with the salty spray of the ocean.

  “What you got?” he said into the phone. “I’ve got two dead guards. Killed by that psychopath you were supposed to kill.”

  “Heard that. He’s better than we thought.”

  “Or maybe you’re just not as good as you believed?”

  Static filled the silence.

  “So what other news do you have?” Markham asked.

  “I’m standing alone in the middle of our warehouse with the transfer case racks stacked to the ceiling. I’m secure. Got some good news and some not-so-good news,” Xanadu said.

  “Worse than two dead guards?”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. We can get new guards.”

  “That’s true. Just give it to me.”

  “We landed back at Hunter about an hour ago,” Xanadu said. “Saw a dark blue Mustang parked in a vacant lot by the river. Put several machine-gun rounds in it just for good measure. Landed and did a quick site exploitation. Saw what looked like the Reaper and a little girl run into a warehouse. Saw some blood. Think we hit one of them, but I heard on the police scanner that cops were coming onto the scene so we bugged out. Didn’t want to leave a signature with the helicopter. The miniguns worked great and sounded like a zipper closing, that’s about it. I’m not worried about any audible signatures. But, no joy on catching the Reaper yet, though we did get eyes on.”

  “I need some joy,” Markham demanded.

  “Well, that brings me to my bad news.”

  “It isn’t good news that you saw the Reaper. Everyone has seen him. He’s everywhere!” Markham shouted.

  “Well, boss. I need to tell you that I’m staring at an IED instead of my ‘girlfriend.’ Saw this yesterday, but have been too busy chasing Harwood.”

  Markham knew that Xanadu had kept one of the women for himself. He had not cared. It was Xanadu’s job to get the women and the drugs and Markham fully expected the operative to enjoy some spoils of his hard work, like an undisclosed bonus. And he also knew that Xanadu had not told him of her disappearance because he had been trying to find her. He had been around long enough to know to never send bad news up the chain unless you had expended all options. Apparently, Xanadu was out of options.

  “I got to Tybee Island about an hour ago to meet with a new group of investors, who are already here,” Markham said. “And you’re telling me we’ve got a squirter? Your girl escaped? That’s why we box them up and ship them after we’re done with them.” He looked at the bluefish churning offshore. “You hung on to the bitch for how long? Three months? Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? Ain’t no tang that good, my friend.”

  Markham took a deep breath and thought about the transfer cases. Those had been his idea when he was still active duty. Having heard about so many ramp ceremonies for fallen soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines he was shipping back home for the final salute, he found his mind wandering to the possibilities, especially if the transfer cases were on a private aircraft.

  However, one of the transfer-case girls on the loose was not a good thing. Then he thought about what he considered the lesser threat and asked, “And an IED in MLQM’s headquarters? How in the hell did that happen?”

  Markham had bid farewell to his five platinum CLEVER sponsors, who had opted for the hunting lodge in Colorado … and its amenities. The general was now scheduled to meet with five gold sponsors, who preferred the beach. CLEVER did very little hiring of veterans and retired military personnel, but the organization did go a long way toward enriching the lifestyle of those involved. CLEVER was no different from some of the veteran “charities” that had preyed upon the humanitarian nature of the American people and delivered fat salaries to their CEOs and slim pickings to the vets. A thought piece published every now and then by a veteran under the CLEVER guise went a long way in the positive-publicity department. The rest was just fund-raising, fucking, and firearms, the three f’s of life for Markham.

  General Markham was enjoying the spoils of his hard-earned high-ranking status.

  “I’m not exactly sure how she escaped. I was in Afghanistan until three days ago getting you more women and drugs,” Xanadu said. “We had a routine. I chained her to a water pipe in my office and had her gagged when I was there. Then every time I put her back in, threw her however many MREs and water bottles she needed based upon how long I was going to be gone. No way she got out without some inside help.”

  There was no love lost and very little trust between a bona fide psychopath such as Ramsey Xanadu and a refined, well-trained senior executive such as Markham. Nonetheless, Xanadu had his uses for exactly those reasons. If there was plausible deniability between him and Xanadu, Markham was solid. The phones upon which they spoke were untraceable secure phones developed by MLQM.

  “She was in the transfer case when you left?”

  “Of course. Like I said. Where I always kept her unless I was there,” Xanadu said.

  Markham pursed his lips and rubbed his forefinger across them. “So she could be anywhere? Did one of your MLQM Neanderthals take some liberties with her?”

  “If they did—and I don’t believe they would do so—why would they leave an IED in the transfer case?”

  “I agree, that’s troubling,” Markham said, calculating his distance from Hunter Army Airfield to be about twenty miles’ straight-line distance, well out of the range of any artillery shell. “Are you staring at it now? Is it rigged as one of those artillery-shell IEDs that troubled our forces so much?”

  Markham had no personal experience with improvised explosive devices, but had heard they were quite deadly. He walked from the deck to his sunroom, the golden rays slicing through the floor-to-ceiling windowpanes that gave him an expansive view southward into the Atlantic Ocean and the wildlife refuge on the islands to the southwest. Sipping his coffee, he thought about his Tybee set of concubines. They were the first ones and he guessed it was about time to rotate them out. Ten girls at each location was the standard. He had hooked them on heroin and then issued them weekly HIV tests just to make sure none of the CLEVER guests had brought an unwanted disease into the “family.” The Colorado girls were the most recent and there was nothing like dusting off a young fifteen-year-old girl in Markham’s mind. The first time was a bit sloppy, but once trained, there was no better feeling in the world to him. It was just … tight. To that point, at least the Tybee girls were dusted and trained. They knew their role and how to perform. After the all-night flight he could use some stress relief, but first he needed to help Xanadu through this meddlesome problem.

  “I’m staring at it. It’s metal, like a briefcase. There’s wires attached to a standard car battery. The battery looks new. The case looks muddy and old. Like ten years old kind of thing.”

  “Can you snap a picture with your phone? I’ll have some of my intel experts analyze it,” Markham said.

  “Roger. I’m lucky it didn’t blow when I opened the case,” Xanadu said. “And there’s a note on top that says, “Trade.”

  “Trade? Who’s asking for a trade?”

  “It didn’t have a question mark. It was a statement. There’s an off chance that she might have been Basayev’s wife.”

  “You kidnapped the wife of the most lethal terrorist in the world?”

  “It’s possible, though I didn’t know it at the time.”

  Markham stepped inside the bulletproof walls of his mansion’s sunroom, looked around, suddenly feeling as if there was a bogeyman behind every door.

  “Okay, well, this is different,” he said, gathering himself. He stared through the bulletproof windows into the ocean.

  A flock of pelicans glided low along the water like a squadron of bombers avoiding radar. They cruised past the boat circling the bluefish and continued south. Lifting his face to the sun beaming through the windowpane, he let the s
tress leave his body. No worries. If Basayev had come for his wife, then he most likely had her. If he wanted to get revenge, well, this was all on Xanadu.

  “And word is that Basayev is in country. The Chechen,” Xanadu continued.

  Markham coughed. The smile faded.

  “Say again? Basayev? Here?” Though that thought had occurred to him.

  “Yes. He’s been reported as having been at the hotel. Lots of moving pieces.”

  “Well, it sounds like he’s got his woman and left you a bomb. Quite the shit show you’ve created,” Markham said, trying to settle down. He didn’t want to take a Valium before the stress relief because sometimes that made it difficult to get hard. And taking a Valium and Viagra at the same time seemed counterproductive.

  “I have a plan,” Xanadu said. “But it involves a lot of the product and many of the girls.”

  “Do tell,” Markham said, taking another sip of his coffee.

  Xanadu laid out the plan as Markham paced back and forth along the expansive sunroom. He understood the plan, but didn’t necessarily like it.

  “Will you get me more girls?” Markham asked.

  “Of course, General. I figured you’d be tired of these by now anyway,” Xanadu said.

  “Well, true. We can go ahead and redeploy these. And the product? You’re talking about a couple of million in walking-around money,” Markham said.

  “Plenty more where that came from. The only thing in the way is Harwood,” Xanadu said.

  “And maybe that bomb you’re looking at,” Markham said.

  “Well, as I told you, that’s part of the plan.”

  “Approved. Execute and don’t fail.”

  Markham clicked off the phone call and sat in his favorite chair. He pressed a button on his phone and said, “You can come down now.”

  Pushing the image of Basayev’s face out of his mind, Markham licked his lips with anticipation. The young girl’s slender hand slid along the railing as she negotiated the steps toward him, her negligee floating above her thighs like a gossamer welcome sign.