by J. T. Patten
“Then you call Two-bags.”
Dexter Woolf roused, his head splitting in pain and eyes feeling like they would pop out of his head. The pain in his side indicated the likelihood of broken ribs. He lay on the floor and watched mice run around across oil-pooled concrete, heading for the corners of the garage. The good news was neither his hands nor feet were bound. He reached back to feel his head. It was swollen, but his hand was dry. No split skull or skin from the best he could tell.
One of the Lawndale Legends gang members, Antoine, caught Dexter’s movement from the corner of the open van door. He reached out and gave his buddy Sketchers a tug of the shirt.
“Why you pullin’ on my—”
Antoine jerked his head in the direction of Dexter. “Osama bin Muthafucka’s awake.”
Sketchers hopped out from the back. “Don’t get up, man, or we’ll pop you again across the skull.”
“Fuckin’ bang your building-blowing-up ass but good.”
Dexter spoke to them with no foreign accent, which surprised the thugs based on how the Modarris was dressed. “You’re making a mistake. We had a deal with Two-bags.”
“Deal changed, camel man. He only dealing with the embassy dudes. He don’t know you for shit and don’t like no terrorists. America, motherfucker.” The hood laughed.
From the outside of Dexter’s pant pocket, he probed a finger to his mobile device’s power button and pressed it on.
* * * *
“You do not want to be doing that, brother,” offered Detective Daniels, knowing what had just happened even before Drake spun the officer and gave him a push toward the backseat entry. Drake pressed the barrel into the detective’s back between the bulletproof vest and pants belt.
“I need you to get into the car. Trust me, man, you don’t want any of what I’m doing to get on you.”
“Look, brother, whatever it is, if Havens said you need help, we’re here to get you out of any jam.”
“Please, get in.”
“I know you’re not going to shoot me. I was a soldier, too. Did the whole—” Daniels started to turn when the gun fired.
Chapter 37
When Sean Havens checked in with Sebastian about Drake, he found it suspicious the way their program director had mentioned Dexter Woolf’s involvement. Not enough time had passed in the last days where an unknown community asset would be relied upon, especially after what little relationship Drake had over the years with the older brother. What Drake had confided to Sean in the past week raised the small hairs on the shadow master’s neck. He needed to check it out.
Unfortunately, Sean was less than mobile, and the one person who could find things out wasn’t exactly speaking to him. Still he had tried hoping that another chit he was calling in would be received in the spirit of national security if friendship was out the door.
Havens checked his mobile device app to see if he had received a response yet. Still nothing.
A light rap on the door signaled Mitch’s warning before coming in to Havens’s recovery room within the safe house, which was really a small mansion on loan to the CIA or anyone else who knew the code word for “don’t ask, don’t tell” services that were paid for from an unnamed trust of a former OSS member’s estate. “Sean, there’s a call coming in for you on the line over there.” Mitch crossed the room to grab and relay the dated handset to his recuperating guest.
Sean’s “what gives” gesture received the same body language response from the house security guard, Mitch. Neither had a clue how a call would have found its way in.
“Hello?” Sean answered, his face wrinkled with puzzlement.
“I’m still not talking to you, but clearly you’ve gotten someone else in a jam. What’s your question?”
It was “X.” After a long history with the techno intel whiz, Sean and his former colleague had a falling out. Mostly because Havens had fucked over his pal, which X was still getting over with no fingernails and three missing teeth.
“Thank you, Mitch,” Sean dismissed in the polite language of piss off for now. “Sorry. I’d ask how you got this number, but that just validates why I need to chat with you. How are you?”
“I’m connected to the system. Just tell me what you need. Don’t pretend to care, or you would have reached out before you needed something else. That’s just who you are.” X’s voice was tired. Indifferent. Clearly, he was still broken and would be for years to come. He may never get over it, but at least X was working. For whom was an age-old riddle.
“Point taken and deserved. A name. Dexter Woolf. Covered agent or asset. Maybe a NOC. Just don’t know. He works as a double in the Middle East. Don’t know code name or his handler. Assume CIA. His father was Alex Woolf. Former case officer. Now deceased. Guy’s brother is—”
“Birddog,” X tossed out flatly. “I know the guy. Well…knew him.”
“Knew it. What did you think of him?”
“Does it matter? Thought you wanted something on the brother.”
“Yeah, I was just curious though.”
“Curiosities are not priority intel requirements. There’s nothing on Dexter Woolf, and Drake Woolf is dead. Right Sean?” he asked after a slight pause.
“Did you check on Dexter?”
“I just said there’s nothing. Take this name down. Tom Mendle.”
“Hang on. I need to find—”
“Get out of the bed, Havens, and maybe you’ll find one. It’s on the right-hand side of the room on that bookshelf.”
Sean looked around the room to see where a camera feed could possibly be for X to hack into.
“It’s in the smoke detector. That’s why you don’t see a red or green light. We use them so we can hard wire the pinhole cameras. The safe house you’re in isn’t just for our own guys. I’ll respond to your message post with the number of Mendle. Encrypted.”
“Do you have an address? What if I need to find him?”
“He’s on his property. I just checked. Don’t call me again, Havens. And for what it’s worth, Sean, no one from his old unit really believes Birddog is dead. So, cover your tracks even if Orange and Woolf don’t exist anymore. One last thing.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad Maggie is well and doing great in school. She’s going to be a great hacker.”
The line was dead before Sean could respond or ask about his own daughter, who had been tucked away at an NSA National Center of Academic Excellence in Cyber Operations university with a new identity and an internship at the Fort. Not even Sebastian knew.
Regarding X, his old friend was right. Havens never checked back on his pal after the Vineyard. As always, Sean got caught up in his own family or work crises and never looked backward to those he left behind. Sean Havens had failed his wife, his daughter, Lars, and his friends on multiple occasions. He eyed the wooden cane left at the other side of the room.
Team meant getting his ass out of the bed.
And finding out what Tom Mendle knew.
* * * *
Adding insult to injury, Drake cold-clocked Detective Daniels with the firearm and shoved the policeman into the back seat. While Woolf would have loved to keep the weapon, Daniels and Neil had helped him. The last thing they needed to get busted for was a missing pistol. He tossed the weapon into the footwell and made off in a sprint down the side street and toward a visible alleyway. He knew Daniels would have a small tear and burn from the bullet direction and had seen the bullet hole remnant in the hard-plastic seat back of the car.
“You still with me, Ocean?”
“Dude.” Mojo gave a long pause. “What are you doing? I’m not good with this. I’m hearing everything and, man, I’m fucking sick to my stomach. I did not sign up for this. Dude, you crossed a line.”
“I need a lift, Ocean,” Drake said, his fist balling up tightly around the duffel strap
. “Everyone wants a white-hat hero, but the job takes a monster. Suck it up and find me a ride.”
“I’ve got nothing. I can’t get a payment through this fast. We’re not set up for that.”
“Fuck it.” Drake ducked into the alley, changing his flee abruptly to a casual walk. There was no one around nor visible from his brief scan of the overshadowing buildings. Woolf yanked off his wig and beard, and quickly shed his jacket. From the bag he pulled a thin wool pullover, a ball cap with Tabasco stitched across, aviator glasses, a protein bar, and a sports drink. He tossed everything into two separate dumpsters save for the wig and beard that he stuffed into the top opening of a restaurant’s grease disposal. No need for a duffel when it was supposed to be holding weapons by now.
Coming out the opposite end of the alley, Drake spied a gray Honda Accord parked along the curb. The car had a driver, its engine running. Windows were down. Again, Woolf gave a security scan of his surroundings. No one appeared to be paying much attention. No cameras were visible. While he no longer looked the part of the homeless, he didn’t want to expose himself in near true form, which would be an inconvenience for the next five to ten years of his life if he even lived that long.
The dark voice interrupted his plan. You’ll have to kill him. They’ll find you with a description.
I know, Drake replied as he rolled the gummy latex adhesive off his upper lip and cheek. Shit. I pitched the pills.
Drake’s OCD and necessity for meds didn’t trump his need for moving out of the area quick. He pulled the hat down and made his approach.
Chapter 38
Tom Mendle threw the last of the filleted fish skeletons into the fire pit. He wiped the blood and scales off his hands and knife using a wadded oil-stained rag that had been lying on his tackle box. Tom smiled at his wife, who sat on a chair quietly reading. He then walked down to the river’s edge and dipped his hands and the cutting board into the cold water.
“Don’t fall in,” his wife called out, never raising her nose from a book.
He dried his palms on his pant legs and walked back to the fire, where he pulled the pot of coffee off the fire rack. He poured a cup for himself and poured a cup for his wife, who sat bundled in a blanket, a hard-cover mystery in hand. Their house was only thirty, maybe forty feet away up the hill, but this was their daily routine while enjoying retirement.
“We’re out of creamer,” she informed with a smile. “You going up to the house to get some?”
He gave his wife a sideways glance. “If you’d drink it black, you wouldn’t have that problem,” he replied with an equal smirk.
“I would drink it black if my loving husband didn’t insist on buying the cheapest coffee in the store and then burning it on the fire while he pretended to be a settler back in the day before electric coffee pots.” Her smile grew, and she cast an eye to her steaming mug. “And it smells like fish now.”
His phone rang in his deep barn-jacket pocket.
“One of the kids?” she asked with concern.
“How the hell should I know? It’s still in my pocket.” He looked at the number then waved her off and started walking up the hill.
She called out, “You better not go into the study and start working for them again. You’re retired. And getting my creamer, right?”
Tom Mendle could almost feel his testosterone rising once he saw the No Caller ID display across his device. He answered with a smile, hoping someone was calling about something that was security related. The kind of people who drank their coffee black.
“Y’ello!” he answered.
“Tom Mendle?”
“Yes, sir,” the seventy-two-year-old man responded as he opened the screen door, kicked off his boots, and headed for the den with a slight skip in his step.
“I know this isn’t a secure line, but hoped I could still ask you about someone from your past. A Dexter Woolf.”
Mendle stopped in his tracks. His joy deflated in a word. “You did say Dexter?”
“Yes.”
Tom Mendle backed to the hallway wall and slid down onto the hardwood floor. His knees raising to the chest. The pain in his legs was shooting, but Tom couldn’t stand. He ran his free hand to his head and under his MacDill Bay Palms golf hat.
Sean waited for a reply that never came. “Sir, are you—”
“Just tell me what that son of a bitch’s done now.”
Chapter 39
Drake stepped from the curb down to the street level and approached the car from behind.
Pull him from the car.
I can’t escalate things more to draw attention to myself.
You’ve ruined things again. You’re locked up for good now. Dead man.
Drake’s nostrils filled from a sweet smell lingering in the air as he came up to the driver’s-side door. The window drew down a few inches to let a plume of smoke out, then went back up again. Drake could hear the music and recognized it from his childhood. Dexter used to play the same song repeatedly. David Bowie’s “Rebel Rebel.” The window came down again. Lower this time as the driver’s hand reached out and tapped the ash of a joint to the ground. The man was singing along and drew another lungful.
“CPD. Hands on the wheel.”
Startled, the long-haired man dropped the joint and fumbled for it at his feet.
Drake reached back, opened the driver’s-side rear door, and got in behind what could have passed for a younger forty-fifty-something Jerry Garcia in a Hawaiian shirt. “Drive.”
The man stopped fishing on the ground, gave a few stomps with his feet, and turned. “You’re not a cop.”
“Drive! Keep your eyes forward.”
The driver started to laugh. “Dude.” He looked into the rearview mirror at Drake, with round spectacles and friendly eyes. “Twenty dollars and I’ll take you wherever, but you’re not taking my car. And you’re not a cop.”
Drake smacked the man on the side of the head. “Drive. I don’t want your car. And I’m not going to hurt you. But I need you to go, now.”
“Dude, you hurt me,” he accused, holding his head. “No way.”
Drake smacked the guy again. Not so hard this time. “Please.”
“Stop, I’ll go.” The man put the car in reverse, cranked the wheel hard, popped it in drive and exited the parallel park job in the blink of an eye. He turned the music off.
“You can keep it on.”
“You like Bowie?” Garcia strained to turn.
“Eyes on the road. Yes. I like Bowie. What’s your name?”
“Walter. Did you steal something?”
“No.”
“You did something, because you haven’t told me where you’re going.”
“Ocean, this is Neptune. You copy?” Drake held up a finger for Walter to hang on, then waved him forward to ensure he didn’t stop driving.
“Fuck,” cursed Walter, looking back again in the mirror. “You are a cop. Am I busted?”
“I’m here, Neptune. Just glad you didn’t kill anyone else. That was a cop you shot. Cruisers are being dispatched to your area. I can’t hear what’s being said since we’re not monitoring their radios, but there’s a lot of cars going really fast to your area.”
Drake saw the vehicles rushing to his right as they crossed the intersection. He keyed his mobile device, honing in on the number that Dexter had given him. It was still live but had moved a few blocks away then lost signal. Drake’s signal app, however, showed a message was waiting. “Walter, need you to take the next right on Ashland.”
“Where are we going?”
“Lawndale. South.”
“You’re not serious. Fuck that.” Walter swerved to the outside lane. Police cars screamed by. He made a fast turn to the right.
“Hey, we’re going to Lawndale. I don’t give a fuck what you think about it.” Drake raised his hand
, causing Walter to flinch.
“Chill. I’m going, but I’m not taking Ashland. We’ll get into Cubs traffic. I’m taking Lawrence.”
Mojo spoke up again. “We’ve got a problem, Neptune. Starfish moved ahead to her objective and thinks she may have a tail from the Venezuelan embassy. You need to help her out.”
“Okay. We’ll figure it out. Tell her cavalry’s coming, and I’ll try to figure out how to patch her in. I’m halfway through my battery, so may need to power you off more.”
“You’d be doing me a favor, man.”
“Yeah. I know,” Drake said with true, heartfelt regret. The voices disagreed and were getting louder. While the meds wearing off allowed the voices to come back, the enhanced aggression and insatiable rage remained escalated and very difficult for Drake to tone down. He wanted to call Havens. The closest thing he had to a friend or shrink. Seemed now that all Havens could do for him was provide the “phone a friend” detectives, one of whom he just shot. Drake rationalized it was to help keep Daniels from being accused of aiding and abetting a murderer. The reality was, Drake didn’t care and would have just as soon gone for the belly, but for the life of him, he didn’t know why.
Chapter 40
Tom Mendle sure as hell hadn’t expected to hear the name Dexter Woolf, much less any other Woolf, that day or for the rest of his life. “I don’t believe I got your name,” he replied to Sean while still folded on the floor.
“Sean Havens. I used to work with our Uncle Sam.”
“I know your name from the halls. Figured if you’ve come across the Woolfs, you have a need to know. And since they’re all dead, or supposed to be, probably safe to chat a bit. What do you need?”
“Is Dexter one of us?”
“I figured he was alive. Sure wished he was dead.”
“I don’t really know that I can confirm that. Ends are pretty loose.”