Conley concentrated on the controls. “Not welcome on the fragrant island,” he said cryptically. “But ready and willing when able.”
Dan nodded with more understanding now than he would have had before his visit to the island.
“Where to?” Conley asked him before he wandered off too far.
“Home, James,” Morgan replied, making his way toward a dream cap. “We got our work cut out for us.”
Chapter 30
The first thing Dan Morgan’s Andover, Massachusetts neighbor Steve Richards heard was Neika barking. When Richards sat up in bed, he looked to where the dog was collared out in the yard.
As much as he had tried to make the German Shepherd understand that she was welcome in the Richards home, the loyal canine had refused to budge from her self-appointed place keeping watch over the burnt-out patch of grass next door. Richards was just about to lie back down, hoping to ignore the sounds, when the barking continued.
That’s not like her, he thought and sat up again, eyes wide open. He craned his neck toward the window and, to his surprise, saw what looked like a dark gray ghost shambling through what remained of the Morgan house next door.
Richards was up and on his feet, grabbing for his robe, and heading for the stairs in the space of two seconds. In the space of ten seconds he was in the yard and un-clipping Neika from her leash. In the space of thirty seconds, he was catching up to the dog as she was hopping and licking all over the “ghost.”
“Humph,” Dan Morgan said in apologetic tones as he scratched the dog with a big smile on his face. “I should’ve seen her first, of course. But I thought she would’ve made even more noise if I had.”
“Silly man,” Richards murmured, surmising why Morgan was here. The fact that he hadn’t seen his dog first, and had chosen to arrive in the middle of the night told him that much. “You won’t find anything,” he advised his neighbor. “The cops and firemen didn’t. Missy thought that was good news,” he finished, invoking his wife’s name. Unlike him, she had grown up with dogs, so Neika would’ve had to howl like a werewolf to wake her up.
Dan looked up from Neika’s calming face to his neighbor’s caring one. Both the neighbor and the dog could feel the waves of sadness coming off the man.
“Now I know why ‘it seems like a lifetime’ is such a cliché,” Dan mused, looking around at what had once been his home. “Because it really does seem like a lifetime ago that I was here.”
“Seems that way to me too,” Richards admitted, looking around the neighborhood, which, happily, had gone back to being quiet and peaceful very quickly after that terrible night.
Dan looked up at Richards. “They really didn’t find anything, or are you just being nice?”
“Or worse, they found something and thought it best not to tell me,” Richards countered, before shaking his head. “No, I have friends at both the cop shop and the firehouse, Dan. The latter think it was a torch job and the former are keeping the file open while they look for you …and your family.”
The words made it clear. No bodies were found in the wreckage. The expression on Dan’s face, when he raised it back to meet his neighbor’s eyes, was both hopeful and haunted.
“So that’s it, huh?” he said hollowly, having to make sure. “Nothing?”
“Nothing human,” Richards assured him.
That got Dan to his feet, Neika circling her master’s legs. “What does that mean?”
Richards’ expression was knowing. “That means the authorities found no clues to follow. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t.” Chuckling at the look on Dan’s face, Richards turned toward his own garage, and beckoned Dan to follow. “Come on. I got something I think you should see.”
* * * *
It was a key. A key in a small, strong, titanium box Richards had found under some charred planks, melted plastic, and pulverized bricks. It was a key Dan recognized.
Much to his excitement, he had thanked Richards profusely, then, somewhat to his frustration, asked if he was willing to keep Neika for just a little while longer.
“Of course,” the neighbor had replied. “She’s a gem. You know that. But I’m not the one you should be asking.”
Richards had looked down at the dog, who had already realized what was happening—and had seemed none too pleased about it.
Dan had realized the truth of his neighbor’s statement and had kneeled down to lovingly grasp Neika’s head and look into her clear eyes.
“I’m sorry baby,” he had told her so quietly only she could hear the words. “Nothing I’d like better than to take you along, but the people I’m dealing with would like nothing better than to kill you just to see my reaction. So stay here with Steve for just a little while longer, okay?”
Then Dan had said their command code word for “be a good girl” and left with so much regret that he hadn’t been sure he could ever return to this street without feeling it.
The next stop was the remote storage facility he had found to keep his secrets. He had chosen the place not just because it was isolated, but also because the units were individual boxes unattached to each other, as well as out in the open air rather than inside a building. It was also accessible twenty-four-seven, so a renter didn’t have to rub shoulders with other renters during normal hours. In other words, exactly the sort of place most modern types would steer clear of.
Jenny had discovered its existence on one of his most recent missions—the mission that had put her in harm’s way …the mission she had shotgunned her way out of.
The key in the little titanium box someone had hidden in their house before it had been attacked was a dead ringer for the one he had on his own storage unit. But when he tried it on his laminated, stainless, titanium, uncuttable lock, it didn’t work. It wasn’t a key for his unit.
Dan tried the key in every lock, moving in ever-decreasing squares, starting from the first unit closest to the corner of the barbed wire fence. The storage unit establishment was about an acre big—more than forty thousand square feet—but Dan just kept going until the key fit in another laminated, stainless, titanium, uncuttable lock. He turned it to the right, and the bolt snapped open.
Dan almost laughed. Of course it was the unit directly behind his. It was also the same size as his. Dan left the key in the lock, then slipped his hand inside his dark gray jacket until his fingers were resting on the butt of his Walther PPK. Leaving them there, he used his free hand to slip the lock off, grab the now open latch, and lift the corrugated steel, garage-like, door up and open.
The lamp lights along the outer fence were enough for him to see what lay within. Inside the storage unit were not weapons or files or codes or jewels or money or even passwords. Instead it looked like a museum of his life.
There was the first checkers set his mother had given him. There was the old-fashioned coffee grinder his father had given him. There were lovingly detailed classic car models he had made as a tween. There were the wrestling cups, boxing medals, and football trophies he had been awarded as a teen. There was Jenny’s and his wedding album. There was even the “embrace the pain, love the pain” pillow Jenny had stitched for him as a joke on his fortieth birthday.
It hit him, in the words of another cliché, like a thunderbolt. This was the ephemera of his entire married life—not his family life. All traces of Alex were M.I.A., removed when their daughter got her own place. It was his and Jenny’s life, all collected in one place …one place that wasn’t their home.
Dan blinked, realizing all this was not just his life in souvenirs. This was not a museum of the Morgans, secreted away just in case something bad happened. It was clear and present evidence that, somehow, Jenny had known that their home would be destroyed, and had moved all of this into the storage unit before it could happen.
Dan remained in the open entry of the storage unit, trying to find anything that would help hi
m believe that his theory was not the case. His gaze flitted from memory to memory until it settled on a gleaming eight-by-ten gunmetal frame. He tried to see what was inside the frame from where he stood, but a lamp light from the fence created a glare.
Dan took a step closer, letting the corrugated metal entry slide down. The shadow from the descending door again obscured the picture from view. With another step, Dan saw it was a photo of two people. Another step revealed to him that one of them was Jenny. She was smiling, looking honestly happy. She had her arm around the other person’s shoulder. But when he took another step closer, a different lamp light at a different section of the fence blotched out the other person’s face.
It wasn’t him in the photograph. The person wasn’t tall enough. Those weren’t his wide shoulders. Dan angrily took another step closer, causing the corrugated metal door to screech down even further, plunging the room into gloom. Dan spun to stalk back to wrench it open so it would stay open, but someone beat him to it. Dan froze as the corrugated door began to rise again, ever so slowly.
As it did he pulled his Walther from its shoulder holster, and held it loosely at the ready. He watched as two strong hands kept lifting the storage unit door, until the lamplights from the fence poured in again, blanketing the front of the visitor’s face into darkness, while surrounding the head with glowing yellow light.
“Hey Cobra,” the visitor said with a voice Dan recognized. “Long time no see.”
Chapter 31
The person who re-opened the storage unit door didn’t step into the light. He stepped into the gloom, so that the darkness inside the storage unit and the yellow light outside it balanced just enough for Dan to make out the person’s face.
Dan made a noise between a sigh and a snort but, quite noticeably, didn’t put his gun away.
“Diesel,” he said.
Diesel was one of the core back-up ops Zeta used, especially whenever the Morgans were involved. He had been the hot-shot sniper before Alex had come into her own, but had also been useful as a driver. Hence, Dan figured, his code name.
“Cobra,” the big, crew-cut man repeated. “How’s it hanging?”
Dan ignored the very small talk, and answered the question with another question. “Been waiting long?”
Diesel jammed the corrugated door back up into the open position, making a big point of showing how strong he was, and stood his ground.
“Long enough,” he commented. “But you know how it is for us field guys. Get an assignment, do an assignment, get another assignment.”
There was no love lost between the two. They’d had to face each other as combatants twice during their last assignment, and both times, it was Diesel who’d come out worse for wear. As they watched each other, Dan got the sudden mental image of two jousting horses facing off, snorting and hoofing the ground, champing on their bits until they got the signal to charge.
“Yeah,” Dan drawled. “I know how it is. So what’s the assignment anyway?”
“Take a wild guess,” Diesel said, stepping back and aside. As he did, Dan saw he was wearing full assault team gear. “Find you, bring you in for debriefing.”
“Where to?” Dan asked, unbudging. “A crater where Zeta HQ used to be?”
Diesel grimaced. “Naw, AZ43-I set up a temp command post nearby.” He had used the internal designation for Paul Kirby. “We knew you’d show up here sooner or later.”
Dan raised his head. “A temp command post?” he marveled. “Why not your place? You live around here too, don’t you?”
Dan watched Diesel’s eyes. They seemed unfocused for a second, but then relaxed.
“Hell, Cobra, you wouldn’t want to see my place. Looks like a tornado hit it.” He waved Dan over in a convivial manner. “Come on, let’s get a move on. The sooner we team up, the sooner we can go after whoever did this.”
Dan’s smile was wide and tragic. “Right you are,” he said, then got close enough to put his gun in Diesel’s face, but not so close that he left the protection of the storage unit. “Your place looks like a tornado hit it, huh?” he spat. “Well, my place, and all the other loyal Zeta ops’ places, look like a bomb hit ’em.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Diesel complained, his hands up. “That’s what I meant, Cobra! You know that’s what I meant.”
“No, I don’t,” Dan seethed, motioning with his gun. “Weapons off and down, very slowly.”
Diesel, like a deer in headlights, did as he was told, but his deer was a pleading one.
“Come on, Cobra,” he said, gingerly putting his nine millimeter automatic onto the ground just outside the storage unit entrance. “You’re not going to shoot me…”
“Not in the face, no,” Dan agreed. “But it might be interesting to see if a Walther round can penetrate riot gear leg padding.”
“Easy, Cobra, easy,” Diesel went on, his eyes darting as he rose, hands still raised to his ears. “What do you want from me?”
“A leader,” Dan told him. “A leader to follow all the way to Paul Kirby. Then we’ll all have a nice talk.”
All Diesel’s obsequiousness left him. He even dropped his hands to his side with a knowing smile.
“You know that’s not going to happen, Cobra. So let’s stop fooling around and deal with this like men.”
Dan scoffed, standing his ground and not lowering the Walther. “When did you turn, Diesel? When did they get to you?”
The big man gave a little nod, then shook his head slightly as if having an internal battle between yes and no.
“You that slow, Cobra? Right after Bishop admitted he was a double agent, of course.” That had happened on their last mission together as well. “And if you were smart, you’d turn too. Why the hell keep working for this penny-ante, screwed-up …”
In mid-word, Diesel dove faster than Dan thought he could. But he didn’t dive for his nine millimeter, he dove at Dan, betting that the military-trained agent wouldn’t or even couldn’t shoot anyone who had fought alongside him full in the face.
And he was partly right. At the last second, Dan had shifted his aim for Diesel’s leg, but only because he wanted someone to interrogate later. In any case, unlike at the Pai Gow Ultimate table, this time Dan Morgan came up snake eyes. Turned out the assault team padding could handle a PPK round, especially a glancing one.
Next second, Diesel’s fists were smashing into Dan’s wrist and face, sending the gun flying back into the picture frame, and Dan flying back into the table holding all his classic car models. As they cracked, broke, splintered, and shattered, Dan, as much as he tried not to, couldn’t avoid a split-second feeling that a sliver of his childhood had been destroyed, giving Diesel just enough time to take advantage.
He grabbed at Dan’s throat with one hand and at his eyes with the other, sending them both back into the display case full of Dan’s football, boxing, and wrestling awards. The nearly five hundred pounds of solid male muscle smashed into it like a wrecking ball into a house of cards. But rather than feel like he’d lost a part of his youth, Dan felt all that athletic accomplishment and knowledge flowing back into him.
As Diesel tried to get him onto the ground, Dan remembered his military jiu-jitsu teacher bellowing at him at the beginning of his lessons.
If he gets you on the ground, you’re done!
Dan, feeling like he was floating in slow motion rather than falling quickly, planted one anchoring foot, grabbed Diesel’s nearest gripping pinky, spun on his anchoring leg, and twisted Diesel’s last finger as if trying to yank a pull-tab off a beer can.
It was Diesel below him, heading to the ground on his back, with his face twisted in pain from the lightning bolts his pinky was hurling into his brain. As they both slammed to the storage unit floor, Dan remembered what his jiu-jitsu teacher had said at the end of the lesson.
If you get him to the ground, finish him!
So Dan’s knee was up between Diesel’s legs and his forearm was down across Diesel’s throat. But Diesel’s leg was up as well, with just enough time to get his knee on Dan’s chest. With a mighty surge, he propelled Dan off just enough so the groin shot and larynx-crushing didn’t have their full effect.
Neither man waited to catch their breath. Dan tried to leap in mid-push, to bring both feet down on any part of Diesel he could reach, while Diesel rolled and vaulted up. They crashed into each other in mid-air, sending checkers and coffee grounds everywhere around them like some sort of comic book “pow!”
Both Dan and Diesel brought their fists around, only Diesel needed his other hand to steady himself on the checkerboard. But Dan’s other hand was free. He used it to chop into the elbow of Diesel’s punching arm as his meaty fist connected with Diesel’s cheek, nose, and the lower part of his right eye.
Dan’s right foot hit the ground just as his fist connected, giving him the anchor needed for power. His other foot went back like a discus thrower, with Diesel’s head becoming the discus. The ex-Zeta driver shot backwards, smashing into a set of Royal Limoges fine porcelain tableware Jenny’s parents had given the Morgans in honor of their engagement.
As the plates, bowls, and cups spun, flew, and smashed, Diesel flailed out for anything he could find. Dan dove after him, but both stopped dead as they found themselves in a crouch, facing each other, their boot knives in their right hands.
Dan had his Smith & Wesson gut cutter. Diesel had a Kershaw that Dan laughingly recognized as the “4007 Secret Agent Fixed Blade.” It was actually called that, and the fact that it was the one Diesel had chosen told Dan all he needed to know about the Zeta wannabe and traitor. Still, it was a three-ounce, nine-inch, black oxide steel blade with a rubberized handle, and could cut him just as well as a knife named Spectre.
The two men stayed where they were, both looking for an opening that wouldn’t result in a gushing vein. Diesel’s face was twisted in derision and daring, while Dan’s features remained placidly serious. He remembered his knife fighting teacher’s first words.
War of Shadows Page 21
