by Peter Parkin
As he walked along Madison Drive, he glanced over at the National Gallery of Art to his left and recalled the time he had killed an assailant on the front steps. Shot him right through the forehead. Well, in reality, there wasn't much forehead left after Brett's magnum had done its job.
That time hadn't even been related to any kind of threat to the President. Brett was just lucky enough to have been there at the time a wing nut started brandishing a gun, threatening patrons coming out of the Gallery. Brett had been one of those patrons, enjoying the Gallery on his day off. He just pulled his gun and shot him, no warning, nothing. And no questions asked either by any of the authorities—one call from the White House stopped the Washington Police in their tracks. Brett was Secret Service after all—enough said.
He pulled his jacket back and admired that very same gun, resting in the brown leather holster on his hip. A Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum. It was the most beautiful gun he owned. It had a matte silver finish, with a handsome wooden grip. The front sight was gold-beaded and the beastly barrel could fire off eight destructive rounds before needing a reload. Although, with a magnum like his, usually only one round was needed to destroy a life.
Brett turned right onto 4th Street, walked four houses down and then up the steps to his beautifully restored row house. He lived close to what was known as the Capitol Hill neighborhood, the most prestigious address in Washington and the political center of the nation's capital. This was handy for Brett, since most of his work was still government-related. Usually he could just walk to meetings and avoid negotiating Washington's horrendous traffic—and then the proverbial hunt for non-existent parking spaces.
He had retired from the Secret Service three years ago—not because he was dissatisfied, but because he decided he wanted to make some real money for a change. He had joined the service after graduating from Berkeley with a law degree. He had never really wanted to practice law; he'd just been putting in time. Then he was recruited by the Service and his life got a shot of adrenaline. Over the twenty years spent protecting Uncle Sam, he had accumulated an arsenal of deadly skills. He was now a master sniper, martial arts expert, counter-terrorism specialist, and an explosives designer. Skills worth selling to the highest bidder.
So he decided to do just that. And a funny thing happened on the way to self-employment. The U.S. government became his biggest client, his highest bidder, paying him now twenty times more than what it had paid him before, to do a lot of the same things. He was a private contractor now, so he could name his price. Funny how government worked, he thought. Go private and get a massive raise. Taxpayers had a right to be confused.
He usually worked alone; he preferred that. But occasionally he drew in some other contractors on larger jobs, or when other skill sets were needed. He had a good team of people that he could count on, a tight circle that he trusted with his life. Most of them had been Secret Service or FBI during their government careers, so they were discreet and talented. And they all enjoyed money as much as Brett did.
He opened his front door and stepped into the hallway, forced to look at his image in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall. At forty-eight years old, he still looked good. He didn't look his age at all, and was blessed with a trim athletic frame. Not too tall, hovering around the six-foot mark. His features were handsome; he knew that. Those features and his confident, charming personality were great assets to have as a self-employed man. Those assets opened doors—whether the door handles were being held by women or men, it didn't matter. They just opened for him. His hair was sandy brown, and his eyes were a dreamy blue.
He looked too good to be a killer. But that's what he was.
Brett strolled through his living room, admiring the floor to ceiling stone fireplace that he had built with his own hands. It was a masterpiece. As he walked, his Italian leather shoes made a solid clip-clop sound on the cherry hardwood floor. He loved the sound of 'solid.'
He entered the kitchen, which was another room he was proud of. French country cabinets, nickel-plated fridge, and the centerpiece of the kitchen—a black 'AGA' cooker—manufactured in the Shropshire area of the U.K. and installed in his house just a few months ago. He still hadn't mastered how to cook with it yet, but he knew it would only be a matter of time. Patience and perseverance—two things Brett was good at.
He opened the fridge and took out a bottle of beer. He twisted the cap off and took a long swig. While the liquid was pouring down his throat, he heard the words, "Hello, Brett."
He simultaneously spun and dropped, gun in hand before his knee even touched the floor. Bottle of beer in one hand, magnum in the other, both of them pointing at the chest of a man standing in the dining room doorway.
"Whoa, buddy! Take it easy!"
Brett sighed with relief and lowered his pistol. "Geez, I could have killed you, Bill. What the hell are you doing in here—and more importantly, how did you get in here?"
"Just wanted to show you that the U.S. government can easily bypass your supposedly foolproof Israeli locks." Bill Charlton smiled at his friend.
Brett stepped forward and gave Bill a friendly punch on the shoulder. "I love you, but don't ever break into my place again, okay?"
Bill laughed. "No, I don't think I will. Those Secret Service skills are just as sharp and finely-tuned as ever. My God, you still move as fast as a cat!"
Brett opened the fridge again and tossed Bill a bottle of beer. "Here, use your teeth to open it. You guys in the Defense department are supposed to be pretty tough."
"No, I think I'll just twist it open like you did! Why show off if I don't have to?"
The two friends sat down at the kitchen table. Brett pulled the envelope of photos out of his pocket, and tossed them over to Bill. "Here's what you wanted. I hope this solves your problem. And, by the way, we were supposed to meet later tonight for this envelope exchange. Why didn't you wait?"
Bill stuffed the envelope into his pocket without looking inside. "I decided to move up the schedule. Yes, we wanted these photos desperately— the Senator is chair of the Armed Services Committee, so DOD is very worried. Thanks for doing this for us."
Brett took another sip of his beer, then held the cool bottle up against his sweating forehead. "No problem. Pleased to be of service. You'll be billed of course, at my usual exorbitant hourly rate! By the way, I'm curious. Did DOD want those photos to save his sorry ass, or to blackmail his sorry ass?"
Bill just smiled, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "We have another assignment for you. It's a delicate one, and very serious. And very challenging."
Brett leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "They're all delicate and serious, Bill. And 'challenging' is what I do. So, what makes this one more challenging than usual?"
"We need you to find something."
"So?"
"It's hidden in two separate places."
"Again, so?"
Bill walked over to the fridge and pulled out two more beers. He handed one to Brett, twisted the cap off his and took a long slow sip.
"One of the hiding places is the demented mind of an eighty-five year old woman."
CHAPTER FIVE
"I wouldn't touch that with a ten foot pole. Just leave it alone."
Dennis grimaced, and shook his head at his colleague. "How the hell can I do that? I saw it with my own eyes. Those creeps had bugged my mother's room."
Bart Davis put his hand on Dennis' shoulder and squeezed. "She's an old lady, and she used to have a high security clearance. We could never even pretend to understand how the wheels turn at the Department of Defense." He smiled grimly. "And you know what? We never will understand either. That's just the way of the world."
"It's an invasion of privacy."
"Bullshit! Anyone who agrees to work for those spooks gives up their right to privacy, in my view. Your mother knew the score way back when— she may not have a clue now, but she certainly knew it then."
Dennis just stared a
t his friend, trying to absorb the reality of what he was saying. Bart was about Dennis' age, a little on the stout side but solid as a rock. He was the Chief of Internal Affairs. Dennis figured that if anyone had contacts within the DOD that he could use, it would be Bart.
"So, you're not going to help me? Not going to give me a name?"
"No, Denny, I'm not. I have a name, but you can't have it. For your own good. Sticking your nose in over there can only lead to trouble for you here. I guarantee it."
"Thanks a hell of a lot, Bart. All the things we've been through together, I would've thought I could count on you."
"You can count on me. And don't pull that guilt shit on me. I'm not going to help you hang yourself. And guess what—if you got into trouble over there, I would be the one called upon to investigate you here. Internal Affairs, remember? Talk about a conflict of interest! I dangle the bone to chase, you get hung up, and I have to investigate you. Kinda silly, don't you think?"
Dennis rubbed his forehead. "Yeah, when you put it that way."
"Okay, then. Do what you need to do, but don't use the department and don't tell me what you're doing. My advice—just forget about it. She's an old lady and those spooks were just doing their jobs. If they bugged her, so what."
"She told me something, Bart. Something that I'm losing sleep over trying to figure out what she meant."
Bart held up his hand in the stop sign. "Don't tell me anything else. I don't want to hear it." He wagged his finger at Dennis as he headed back down the hall toward the elevators.
Dennis swiveled in his chair and stared out the window onto Indiana Avenue. His office was on the 6th floor of the seven-storey building. The Henry J. Daly Building was an old structure, built in 1941, but still in marvelous shape. Dennis had a nice corner office and his department took up the entire 6th floor. He had a team of forty detectives working under him; a great team, but not nearly large enough to handle the crime that plagued Washington. Even though the crime rate had improved dramatically, it was still substantial. And complicated cases took forever to solve just due to the manpower issue.
The Daly Building was the headquarters for the Washington Metropolitan Police. The name was changed to its present moniker after a shocking incident that took place back in 1992. An armed man entered the building and shot a detective sergeant and two FBI agents to death—then turned the gun on himself. The detective killed was Hank Daly, a "cop's cop," and a well-loved father of two.
Now, any member of the public entering the building had to pass through metal detectors—an extra measure of security that most police departments throughout the United States implemented after that 1992 incident.
Dennis hadn't been there when it happened, having taken a leave of absence for a year after the collapse of his marriage—and the death of his father. Backpacking through China, he read about it in the papers. Wishing he was back in Washington. Wishing he'd been there to shoot the scum dead before he had been able to do it to himself. Dennis would have also made him suffer a bit first.
He pondered his next move, while calmly twisting and bending backwards the forefinger of his right hand, then reversing the move to the forefinger of his left hand. He slid his loafers off, put his feet up on the desk and began doing backward bending exercises with his toes.
"Dennis, I can always tell when you're thinking hard—those fingers and toes get the brunt."
He spun in his chair at hearing the singsong voice of his secretary, Nancy. He smiled—she had a mug of steaming coffee in her hand and he knew it was for him. She took good care of him and had been doing it for fifteen years. Nancy was around forty years old, blonde and pretty. And she was a class act—a dignified lady who was able to keep confidences. A job prerequisite for the shocking things she had to read every day.
"Yeah, Nancy, I'm thinking hard alright. And thanks for the coffee." He stood up and took the mug from her hand. "This will help me think even harder."
She smiled affectionately at him. "I forgot to ask you—did the nurse show up yesterday?"
"Yes, she did. She seems nice. But only time will tell if my mother will like her."
"Describe her to me."
"Well, very efficient. She brought tons of medical supplies and accessories. God only knows what they're all for. I have her lodged up on the second floor."
"You haven't told me what she looks like."
"Aw...she's a looker, Nancy. You didn't need to send me someone that good-looking, you know. She's a bit of a distraction."
Nancy frowned. "I'm a bit jealous, now. I didn't meet her beforehand— the agency just said they would send one of their best." Her frown changed quickly to a sly smile. "I can phone them back and ask them to send you over an ugly girl, if you want."
"No, no. Ugly would be an even worse distraction. I'd have to escape to other rooms in the house and would probably force her to wear a bag over her head whenever she's near me!"
Nancy laughed and headed out the door. "Well, if you change your mind, let me know. And if she seduces you, I don't want to hear about it, okay?"
Dennis laughed back and watched her lovely rear end sashay its way out the door. He knew Nancy had always had a crush on him. He had never encouraged her, but he could just tell by the way she was when she was around him. She had her little ways of letting him know. They had never talked about it, but she also knew him well enough to know that he would never allow himself to get romantically involved with someone who worked for him. She knew that. It was unethical, and for all Dennis' faults, unethical was not one of them.
So, their relationship was what it was: affectionate, protective and professional. Dennis knew that if they had met some other way, some other time, he probably would have dated Nancy. But...it was not to be.
Nancy was single now, divorced from her husband for about six years. He knew she had dated a few times since then, but was always guarded because of what she had gone through with her ex. She was wary of men now...afraid, apprehensive.
Dennis thought back to that day seven years ago, when she was sitting at her desk crying over her morning coffee. Seeing her like that almost made Dennis cry. He called her into his office, sat her down on the couch and put his arm around her slender shoulders. Then she just poured out her heart. Her husband was having an affair. She found the evidence on his computer. He denied it at first, but when she told him how she had found out, he slapped her hard across the face, making it her fault for snooping. Dennis noticed the extra makeup she had been wearing that morning.
He advised her to just leave him, which she did. But after that he came after her. Tracked her down at the women's shelter and knocked out a couple of her front teeth. She switched shelters. Luckily they had never had children, so she only had herself to worry about.
Once the divorce went through she thought things would calm down. He had resisted the divorce, did not want her to leave him, promised he would be a good boy. She wouldn't let his charms change her mind—she was determined to escape. So, the divorce became final and for months she didn't hear from him.
But one terrible night he came back. She was living in her own home by that time, and he knew where. He phoned her from his car but she refused to talk to him. He knocked on the door and she refused to open up. Then he kicked it down.
The hour he spent with her was a blur to sweet Nancy. After he'd had his way, she crawled to the telephone and dialed 911. Then she phoned the only man she really cared about. Dennis was there in fifteen minutes, just in time to meet the paramedics as they were wheeling her out on a stretcher.
She had been raped with a wine bottle, all of her teeth were gone—some swallowed—and her hair was matted in blood from the effects of the same wine bottle being smashed over her head after it had done its sordid work. Dennis cried when he saw her. He held her hand as he asked her, "Who?" She answered, "You know who."
After a month in the hospital and undergoing extensive dental implant surgery—refusing the entire time to identify to anyone
who the assailant was—she was back in the office, smiling and laughing as she used to. Dennis pleaded with her to press charges. Nancy laughed mockingly. "Why, so you guys can let him out and he can come back to finish me off?" He knew she was right. "Maybe he has it out of his system now and will just leave me alone. I can't take a chance on enraging him." She was kidding herself.
But then out of the blue, ex-husband Keith just disappeared. Never to be seen again. In five years Nancy had heard nothing of his whereabouts. She figured he had just packed up and moved. Keith was gone.
As he reflected on the tragic story of his lovely secretary, Dennis felt the need for movement—a special kind of movement. He did this daily, at home, in the office—several times a day. It was how he trained. It was the way of Shaolin.
He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and withdrew a very special piece of wood. It was four inches thick and about twelve inches long. It was characterized by dents all along its length. Not deep dents, more like indents as if a hammer had been taken to the wood.
Dennis fastened a clamp to the edge of his desk and screwed the vice grip tight to the piece of wood. Then he took a deep breath and began systematically pounding the extended forefinger of his right hand into the wood. Softly at first, then hard, then harder. After about ten minutes he would switch to his left hand. After ten minutes of that hand, his socks would come off and a similar exercise would be performed with the toes of his feet.
It relaxed him. And it helped him focus.
*****
Keith stumbled out of the bar, just another night of charming the ladies who needed to feel beautiful. As usual, he had a slut on his arm, and they would head back to his penthouse apartment where he knew, just like all the other pathetic desperate ones, she would let him do what he wanted. Because it made them feel good to be loved for even just one night by a handsome rogue like him. He knew. They were desperate, and those were the ones he liked. Not at all like his confident ex-wife...the bitch.
