by J. T. Patten
Woolf gave a knowing huff. “Ain’t that the truth.”
The two men sat in silence for a moment, both reflecting on the long roads each had traveled in their military careers. “I’ll make a call,” Drake suggested. “Need to confirm that I can still get a private jet in the area. We’re on our heels a bit.”
“Need to bring in a commercial jet or military? I’m guessing spooky either way.”
“Gulfstream V. Executive jet. Can go to airport or a base. We had a couple of the airports earmarked as a contingency.”
“Gulfstream V. The old ‘prisoner rendition transport,’” Patches confirmed. “You all have CAC cards? Base access?”
“We can have our guy call it in.”
“I’ll get you guys to Hunter Army Base. I still do some basic-level trauma response training over there. You have ’em come in there. I’m guessing you boys need to lay real low, if I know Havens any.”
“Thanks.”
Patches got up and started heading back to check on Havens. He turned back to Drake, as if in an afterthought. “Mind if I ask you something?”
Drake shrugged. “Can’t promise an answer.”
“Fair enough.” The seasoned military man gave pause, appearing to Drake that he was contemplating whether he should leave it alone or still pursue the question. “I wanna go back to you in there.” Patches cast an eye to the care room. “I seen that kind of twitchy decompression. Add to it the long stares. An air of detachment but almost manic at the thought of losing maybe one of the few people you’re close to. Like a thin piece of string that could break and drop you at any moment. I know you got it bad. You doing anything for it?” Before Drake could reply, he added, “And I know why you’re not sleepin’ either. Guessing it’s the ghosts.”
“I need to make that call. Can I go in there and get his phone?” Drake walked to the room, stepping to the side of the former operator.
Patches leapt up, sidestepped, and blocked Drake’s path. “Nothing to be ashamed of. You getting help or taking anything for it?”
“No snowflake here, Doc. You won’t get me to take a hug or cry about all the people I regret killing, if that’s what you’re getting at. Because I don’t. And plenty of guys out there and throughout history have seen or done worse than me. Just part of the job. And anything else you may have thought you were seeing, well…” Drake stared past Patches into the care room, looking at nothing but high-end equipment and bright lights. “Anyway, nothing you can help with. I’m holding my own just fine.”
“You so sure about that? Killing quiets things until it don’t.”
Drake took a step in to the man. “We’re paying you to patch physical trauma. If you want to win my heart and mind, please back the fuck up so I can make my call. There’s nothing to see here.”
Kill him, Drake. He’s going to turn you in. Kill him while you have time.
Drake watched the medic-turned-physician’s heart beating within a large neck vein. It pulsed and protruded like a fat nightcrawler after a spring rain. Woolf’s eyes slid to the man’s larynx. Crushing the trachea wouldn’t be a problem with a fast punch through the lean man’s thyroid cartilage. At the very least, Drake could dislocate the larynx from the trachea.
Go see your friend, Drake. Cool it down. You’re safe. You’re protected. Trust him. “Okay, Dad,” Drake muttered to himself before blinking twice. His eyes met Patches’s. The man had slowly stepped back a pace. “Can I go see Sean?”
Patches tightened his lip, sporting a look of concern that was not lost on Drake. The man knew he was a fucking embattled head case.
Drake’s eyes softened. A good man was standing in front of him. The kind that would have been nice to have had around in the early years. Woolf relented. “If you had something like Tegretol or something close to it, that would help. But that’s about it.”
“I know you don’t have seizures if you were with a unit, so it’s either migraines or bipolar.” Patches looked to the low ceiling and bright can lights and then at Drake. “It’s not migraines.”
“Helps stabilize the mood. Takes away the edge.”
Patches pursed his lips. “Or manic episodes like in there. Okay. Just happens I may have some Depakote. Could be expired. Guy down the street had epilepsy but no insurance. Was stabbed to death before I could give it to him.” Patches inhaled deeply. “Go check on Sean and make your call. I’ll see if I can find it. But the pills can only take you half the distance, my brother. The rest you’ll need to open yourself up to receiving from others.”
* * * *
“Knock, knock,” Drake announced before stepping through the curtain.
“Hey, man,” Sean forced. Pain was written across his face. “You get any sleep?”
“Yeah, a few winks,” Drake lied as he assessed his team leader’s condition. “I feel pretty good.”
“Bullshit.”
“True,” Drake affirmed, his voice monotone and distant. He hadn’t known Sean long but hated seeing him in this condition. Sometimes combat wounds were worse than seeing a buddy who died in the field. Dead guys, if you didn’t see them pass, could look fake. Depending on the wounds, they could look like a surreal soulless physical casing. But seeing a wounded pal was a reminder of vulnerability. That even though men were warriors, they were still mortal men. Depending on how well you knew a guy, you could almost see through to the younger version when they were a kid. It was in their eyes. Maybe the fear. Maybe the pain, but something always seemed different in a time out of war when it didn’t make sense and didn’t seem to matter. A wounded buddy who died, however, could have a rallying effect. Payback drove a team back into action. But for some reason, seeing Sean bandaged up with the dried blood soiling his clothes and skin touched Drake in the feels. He fought back the emotions rising to the surface signaling to Woolf that he had few friends, fewer loved ones, and a dad who would never be coming back. Havens was the closest thing he had felt to having a dad again, and losing him would have caused Woolf to completely check out.
“You in there, Woolf?”
“Huh?” He blinked. “Yeah. Just glad to see you made it.”
“Me, too,” Havens joked before recoiling from a new source of discomfort. “Can you make the call to Sebastian for me? I’m going to be toast for a while.” He elevated his hand slightly. “Not sure if they can even save this. I may be out of the game for good. You may as well start taking over now.”
“I can’t do this alone, Sean. We’re done. The task force is done. My uncle’s dead, Lars is fucking dead, we took out the Mohawks, ISOF. It’s game over. Fuck it. Patches said we can bug out from the base. He’ll get us there, we fly you back home, get you fixed up, and I don’t know, let’s just go fishing or something after they save your hand. We did our job. Shit, we’ve done our share of the job for years. And with that Fed on our asses, we’re going to be in prison as our reward.” Drake’s tongue started clicking. He was shuffling his shoulders, and his eyes started to blink as he looked around the room.
He stopped when he saw Sean looking at his restless hand movements.
“Okay, Drake,” Havens appeased, “let’s call Sebastian and get you home.”
Chapter 13
Tresa Halliday pulled in to the deserted urban parking lot that screamed danger. She double-checked the address on her navigation unit, but her eyes lifted to the movement of shadows that emerged from the darkness toward her SUV. Halliday unholstered her Glock and kept it at the ready across her lap.
“This is called over your head, girl,” she chastised herself and the growing ego that recently drove a number of her bad decisions.
A dark hooded figure tapped a finger on the glass.
Tresa reached to the window button on her left armrest and lowered the glass while raising the weapon. Her finger toying the side of the trigger in gentle taps.
The shadow man laughed. �
�Bitch, you the second white person threating me tonight. I’ma hasta call five-oh. This neighborhood’s going to shit.”
A chorus of laughter erupted in the silence between night and first light.
“I need to see—”
“Bitch, Patches ain’t here.”
Patches. The medic. Bingo. “You said there was another white guy. Were there two of them?”
“I didn’t say shit.”
“You said—”
“Bitch, the only thing I said is this message: ‘It’s over.’ The man who I didn’t see and who was never here, axed me to just say they’re done and it’s over. Now get your white ass out of my muthafuckin’ hood before I break my promise. You feel me?”
While Halliday had been feeling her oats over the past week, there was a time and place for playing it tough. It was best for her to get the hell out of this neighborhood and figure out what to do next. Drake Woolf wasn’t here. Her hunch had been right, but she was too late. The ghosts had vanished again, and now they were apparently done. Just when she was getting started.
Then again, she had found them more than once on a hunch.
Halliday rolled up her window, said nothing more, backed up, and bugged out. As she drove, keeping her head on a swivel, she called the dedicated Bureau line for field support.
After some cursory introductions and validations, she asked, “Can you tag my vehicle and direct me to the nearest airfield?”
“That’s easy, Agent Halliday. Hold on.”
Tresa drove slowly in the decrepit neighborhoods, still very mindful of her surroundings as she waited.
“I assume you mean commercial? Or do you want military?”
“Which is closest?”
“Hunter Army Base is about the—”
“Yes! Get me there.”
Tresa fumbled for a moment to get all the bells and whistles of the emergency lights going. Flashing blues and whites, she gunned the SUV while taking the live voice directions until she hit the checkpoint.
A military guard stepped out of his well-lit shack, raised a hand and stepped forward.
“Federal agent! FBI,” she announced with badge and identification available for access. “Raise the gate!”
“Ma’am, I’m going to need to see your identification a little closer,” he rebuffed while sauntering over.
“Soldier, I’m—”
“Ma’am, there’s nobody here being pursued. Think maybe you made a wrong turn.” He stepped back. “This a Tahoe? Slick.”
Far up and to the left of her windshield, small lights rose in the darkness. Her hunch was right. And she was certain she was being stalled. That or everyone in this general area of the country was a backwoods moron. “How can I find out where that airplane is going?”
The soldier squinted. “Not usually any planes taking off this time of night. You can come back tomorrow and ask someone in the office.”
“I doubt I’ll get any answers tomorrow either.”
“Probably not.” He smiled and handed her back her identification.
Dammit. She slapped the wheel while putting the Tahoe in reverse. Halliday was not happy this was dying down. She was having the best time in her whole career. Yet, she needed answers more now than ever before. Earl owed her some answers as to exactly who and what she was chasing but getting blocked all along the way.
* * * *
Patches sat parked in the shadows of the military base with his headlights off, engine killed. This was typical Havens, from the commercial jet coming in here to someone pissed off coming after him. He’d just wait this one out here for a while. Patches reclined his seat back, crossed his arms and closed his eyes. “Fritter,” he reminisced aloud with a chuckle, “you are one special dude.”
Chapter 14
Tresa Halliday called Earl. It was late. Or early. But technically, he hadn’t told his newest ghost that she shouldn’t call at all hours of the night. At least not in the past forty-eight hours he hadn’t. And since this threat was a matter of national security, why let it wait until morning?
“I found a mess, Earl,” she blurted as soon as he greeted her. “You were right. One of their guys is dead. Burned beyond identification most likely, as if he even has an identity. The other casualties are more of the same. Middle Eastern–looking terrorists. I tracked Woolf and his partner down to a down-low clinic and received a message, ‘It’s over.’” Tresa’s voice dropped with the last remark.
“You sound disappointed.”
“I am.” Her nostrils flared. “We still need to hunt them down, right? I mean, they can’t just fucking call time-out.”
“Tresa, you’ve worked tirelessly for weeks. Get a hotel; get some sleep. Sleep for a couple days. Have a nice meal. Let’s figure out our plan after you’ve rested.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I didn’t realize I had to,” he responded firmly but softly. “You’ve done well. Very well. Good night, Special Agent Halliday, you’ve earned it. Let’s talk in a couple days if nothing has materialized on your end. And I’d prefer that it didn’t. I need some time to think. Agents react. The ones on my team spend equal time contemplating as they do in movement. I need to work this puzzle a bit,” Earl Johnson quipped before hanging up.
Tresa dialed again.
“I wasn’t disconnected by a technical glitch,” he asserted in place of hello.
“They fled in a small jet from a military base, Earl. They had access to a military base. You owe me some answers, sir.”
“Because you called me sir, let’s have lunch tomorrow.” And with that, Earl hung up a second time.
* * * *
Drake kept a concerned eye on Havens throughout the whole flight.
Sean slept fitfully with an IV bag rigged to keep fluids and antibiotics flowing. High-altitude flights were not optimal post-trauma given his sedation and the risk of pulmonary embolism with free-wheeling clots. Still, the risk of death was better than sticking around and getting an assured death penalty.
As the Gulfstream landed, Drake saw from his window two awaiting vehicles, an SUV and a high-topped van. The van he knew would take Sean away to a secured and black medical facility, where the quality of care would be top-notch. The SUV would be a ride with Sebastian. As the remaining team member, it would be up to Drake to brief the program director on ICEPICK, code name for their Task Force Orange unit of one, and the shit show op that wiped out two of three members in a trap. FUBAR to the max.
Medics were the first to board, whisking Sean off and into the van like precious cargo. Drake, on the other hand, disembarked to a waiting Sebastian, who simply outstretched a hand holding a mobile device.
“You okay, kid?” Sebastian coaxed with fewer words than Drake expected.
“I’m the better of the crew. Happy to hot wash it with you, whenever you want to discuss.”
“I need you to make a call first. Just hit send once you get in that black beast. Come get me when you’re finished.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t ask you to understand, Woolf. I was fucking explicit in my directive. Dial so I can get you secured and me back home so the wife quits texting me. Tech company owners don’t leave their homes in the wee hours.”
“Understood.” Drake hit send as he entered the vehicle and shut the door, all the while wondering if the SUV would be detonated with the signal or if a Predator would send a screamer in to blow the shit out of him.
“War?” an unfamiliar voice addressed him by an abbreviated name he hadn’t heard for decades.
Drake held his breath in trepidation.
“Warren. It’s me. It’s been so long,” the voice confessed in a sound that became more familiar as memories flooded in.
“It can’t be you.” Drake flopped back against the leather-trimmed seat more scar
ed than he’d been in his lifetime. His breath quickened and chest rose and fell with each word he anticipated hearing from the undead brother who had consumed his life in search. “My brother would have found me a lifetime ago.”
“Little brother, it is me,” Dexter Woolf assured again, after over twenty years of absolutely no communication with his kin. “I don’t have long, but wanted you to hear it from me. Our uncle was responsible for the death of our parents. I was the one who put an end to it.”
Drake’s mind reeled. Words could not form. His tongue clicked.
“You’re still clicking,” the voice said, bemused. “I’ve missed it.”
“Why are you calling me now? After all these years, why the hell now? It seems like everyone else knows something about you except me, and I was the one looking for you all over the world.”
“Sebastian will fill you in. I can’t over this line. He’ll tell you more about what’s coming. But someday we’ll be together again. Soon.”
“Would you have reached out if you hadn’t killed Bob?”
“I don’t know. It all came together recently. I hadn’t planned on coming back to the States.”
“You’re here?” Drake looked around reflexively.
“Dad was getting out. He had me take a different path. Uncle Bob didn’t know Dad was getting out because of his condition. Uncle Bob thought Mom was forcing him out.”
“What condition?” Drake asked unconvinced.
“Like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Voices. He had the voices, too. That’s why I was taking over. I won’t be in touch much, but I’ll be there where you’re going and will help where I can. Save this number, little brother, so you can answer it if I call. I will never have it on for longer than a couple minutes unless there’s a problem. If I need to reach you, I’ll leave you a disappearing text or encrypted voice mail on WhatsApp. Use this number if you need to get a message to me, but I’ll never answer it.” And with that, the line fell silent and disconnected.