Climbing down from the tower, Mathias texted a message to Resnick to have a forensics team swab the radio tower for DNA.
FORTY-ONE
Somewhere Over West Virginia
GLORIA RESNICK SIPPED from a tin of diet soda. Sitting legs outstretched, she propped her bare feet on the vacant seat cushion next to Mathias. Mathias shifted awkwardly as she waggled her toes.
“Don’t worry, Mathias, they won’t bite.”
Seated beside Resnick, Dabney Berkshire snorted. He’d loosened his necktie, removed his suit jacket, sipped from a second refill of Jack Daniels over ice. “Awful business back there,” he said.
“Awful hardly describes what he did to those poor people, Berk,” Resnick said. “It was a public execution.” Resnick sipped from her tin of diet soda, waggled her toes. “What do you think, Mathias? You haven’t said a word since wheels-up.”
Out the window, the sky was dark. At cruising altitude, the ground below was black. Here and there, a faint glow showed the presence of human life. Otherwise, the earth was an unseen landscape of rivers, trees, and denuded coal-country mountaintops that glowed eerily against the light of a quarter moon.
“Could be New Orleans is a coming-out-party,” Mathias finally answered, echoing Berkshire’s prediction of bigger things to come.
“He’ll have the nation in a panic, soon enough,” Resnick said. “The President will trash the Bureau on Twitter. It’s all the Director can do to keep him taking over the investigation, himself.”
“The Shooter won’t go to ground, Rez,” Berkshire said. “He’ll strike again soon, within weeks possibly, to capitalize. Major metro, public venue, some sort of event well-attended. He’ll want to keep the momentum rolling.”
“Texas?” Resnick said.
“No, ma’am,” Mathias said. “He knows we’re coming. Texas is too large a State for him to run, not enough places to hide.”
“Florida?”
“He’ll avoid Florida; too many choke points. My guess is Atlanta, New York, Philly, possibly DC.”
“DC?” Resnick said, worry in her tone. “Why, DC?”
“Because it’s where I’d go, ma’am. Not next, maybe, but certainly last.”
◊◊◊
“Deadliest American sniper ever,” Berkshire said, fingering his stubble. “Devil to the enemy, Legend to his Navy SEAL comrades. Between ninety-nine and two thousand nine, Kyle recorded more sniper kills than anyone in U.S. military history. Iraqi insurgents placed a bounty on his head. Guy saved more lives than a battalion of M1 Abrams battle tanks.”
“Did you know Kyle?”
“Four tours in Iraq, two Silver Stars, five Bronze Stars with Valor, two Navy and Marine Corps Achievement Medals, one Navy and Marine Corps Commendation, a bestselling book and a box-office hit movie. Who didn’t know Chris Kyle?”
“Well, I don’t,” Resnick said. “And what does he have to do with our present situation?”
“Kyle was the chief instructor for training, Naval Special Warfare Sniper and Counter-Sniper teams. He authored the Naval Special Warfare Sniper Doctrine. A lot of men learned to snipe at his proverbial knee.”
“Are you saying The Shooter is a student?”
Mathias cut in. “It’s possible he was close to Kyle, ma’am. As I’ve said, men like us belong to a small fraternity.”
Resnick sat upright, planted her feet on the cabin floor. “You’ve done more for this country than I could do in ten lifetimes, Mathias.”
“Amen.” Berkshire nodded solemnly.
“Call me, Gloria.”
“The Shooter could be a student, Gloria. He could be someone who served alongside Kyle. Maybe he was Kyle’s mentor.”
“Let me get this straight,” Resnick said, shaking her head in confusion. “We’re not searching for an Islamic terrorist gunning down Americans on American soil? The Shooter is ex-military? One of us?”
“You don’t get this good without practice, without the time, resources, specialized training, weapons, ammo, stuff to shoot at. He would need open and inhospitable terrain to perfect his skill in the long shot.”
“He could be a jihadi from Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, or any other Middle Eastern Kingdom,” Resnick argued. “Osama Bin Laden took down the goddamn World Trade Center and pretty near the Pentagon, too. You’re telling me these countries can’t produce one man who can shoot straight?”
“Not like this, man. The only place to get that training, to become this proficient, is the American military—Marines, SEALS—mostly training in the rough country of Utah. Time served overseas with U.S. Forces in Afghanistan, Iraq, or both makes you especially proficient at exterminating live targets. Jihadis aren’t precision, one-shot-assassins; they’re suicide vests, AK47s, dirty bombs, and anthrax.”
“And,” Berkshire added, to reinforce the point, “How many bearded jihadi fundamentalists have you identified passing through transportation hubs on the thousands and thousands of hours of CCTV your people have reviewed?”
Criticism bluntly implied, if not precisely articulated.
Acknowledging the point, Resnick said, “Former military turned domestic terrorist, a psychotic loner living off the grid? Like Kaczynski, the Unabomber?”
Mathias shrugged. “I can’t say if he’s psychotic or a loner; call him a domestic terrorist if you like. What I do know is, he belongs to a very select group of sharp-shooters, very likely former military or special ops, a man expert at what he does; indefatigable tracker, crack-shot, self-sustaining in hostile country for extended periods.”
“I get it,” Resnick said, her smile ironic. “A man like you.”
“A man very much like me.”
Resnick frowned. “And why does he kill, Mathias? Politics, religion, money? What’s his motive?”
Wolf-eyes gleaming, Mathias said, “Maybe he’s out to break a record, Gloria.”
Resnick barked. “I refuse to accept he’s out to make the Guinness Book of World Records.”
Tone flat and dry, Mathias said, “You’d be surprised what motivates a man who spends years taking lives from a distance, Madam Deputy Director.”
“And you would know,” Resnick said, immediately regretting the remark.
Wolf-eyes downcast, Mathias replied, “Yes, ma’am, I think I would.”
Tinkling the ice in his tumbler loudly, Berkshire intervened. “Anyone for a refill?”
FORTY-TWO
Washington, DC
AFTER TOUCHDOWN IN DC, Mathias returned to his motel.
Seated at the foot of the bed, he dialed Tara. No answer, the call going directly to voicemail. He sent a text; no reply. Two more phone calls, two more voicemail, two more texts, and Mathias set down his mobile.
After showering, he turned on CNN. The Whitney White Linen Massacre had been pushed below the fold by a Category Three hurricane bearing down on the island of Cuba. According to meteorologists, it would bounce off the island, head north into the Gulf of Mexico, make landfall in New Orleans as a Category Four, possibly a Category Five. Mathias recalled the view of the Gulf and the City from the window of the Gulfstream, recalled the devastation of Katrina.
To Mathias, The Shooter was Katrina, Mathias enlisted to clean up the mess.
An hour later, eyes glazed, Mathias nodded off to sleep.
FORTY-THREE
Georgetown, Washington DC
DEPOSITING MATHIAS at the motel, Resnick joined Berkshire at his Georgetown home. In the study, they sat opposite each other in Berkshire’s prized, oversize, Federal-style wing-back chairs. The Agency man poured each a two-finger allowance of Bowmore twenty-five-year-old single malt whiskey.
Resnick savored the burn going down.
“Nice,” she said. “And here I thought you were a Jack Daniels’ man.”
“Jack makes me irritable. Single malt helps me to decompress, think more clearly.”
Eyeing him suspiciously over the rim of her tumbler, Resnick said, “And are you?”
Berkshire hoisted
his tumbler. “Deliciously.”
“I mean: Are you thinking clearly?”
Berkshire dragged a hand over his whiskers, sipped. “You like the guy, don’t you?”
“Excuse me?” Resnick said, turning wary.
“Mathias. Despite yourself, you’ve become fond.”
“Save it for the locker-room, Berk.”
Berkshire dismissed her with a wave. “Not in a sexual way, though there could be that, too.” Crossing his legs at the knee over a trouser seam that, despite the long hot, day, remained stubbornly razor-sharp, he said, “When it comes down to it, Rez, I’m worried about your resolve to do what’s necessary.”
Taking offense, struggling to not show it, the Deputy Director replied in a steady voice, “I’m as much a professional as you, Berk. I know what it takes to make hard choices.”
Berkshire grinned. “Hard choices? Until you’ve served time on a battlefield in shit-holes like Afghanistan, Syria, and Iraq where everyone is trying to kill you, you don’t know from hard choices.”
“And you do?”
Tone unyielding, Berkshire replied, “I’ve served in the field at the shoulder of men forced to put down twelve-year-old children to protect a platoon of friendlies. To slice a pregnant woman in two with a three seventy-five caliber shell because she might be wearing an explosive vest concealed beneath a Burka. I may not pull the trigger, Rez, but it’s me makes the hard choices. The nearest you and your ilk come to evil is Bernie Madoff. So, save the dick-wag for someone else.”
Resnick extended her tumbler for a refill. “You’re boring me, Berk.”
Standing, Berkshire complied, retrieved the bottle of Bowmore. Pouring a finger for Resnick, he poured two for himself. Once seated, he said, “Our man is not a lunatic, Rez. He’s meticulous, coordinated, and compelled.”
“We talking about The Shooter or Mathias?”
Between closed teeth, Berkshire spit out a laugh. “Both if it suits.”
“I get it,” Resnick said, impatient. “The Shooter has a plan: To beat Kyle’s record. For sport? Envy?”
Before Berkshire could respond a sudden and violent thunderstorm blew into the DC area. In the garden, a gust of wind whipped the surface water of the pond into a frenzy. As if praying, a copse of ornamental trees stooped from the wind to the ground. Pressed flat, flowering shrubs quivered. Overhead, lightning popped in the sky like a million bulbs from a photographer’s flash. Thunder rumbled, shaking the foundation of the old home.
Ferocious but brief, within minutes the gale subsided. Almost as soon as it began, the wind faded to a whine, the rain to a gentle ripple beating steadily on the lead-glass windowpanes and eaves. Now a hundred miles off, the thunder rolled.
“DC,” said Berkshire. “And they think they have weather in New Orleans.”
“So?” Resnick said.
Storm passed, home still standing, Berkshire settled in.
“The war in the Middle East is over, Gloria; we won, and we’re not going back. There’s nowhere else for The Shooter to go. To post those kinds of numbers, he needs to be in America.”
“Why not Europe, Latin, or South America?”
“Too many CCTV cameras and not enough open spaces and tall buildings in Europe. In Latin and South America, who would notice or give a shit, anyway? The Continent is in disarray.”
Resnick snorted.
“Don’t underestimate the American public’s appetite for entertainment, Gloria. Secretly, half the country will be rooting for this guy. I bet he’s taking selfies as we speak, shooting video on his Go-Pro. Wait until it turns up on YouTube.”
Resnick sipped and sighed. “It’s like that Richard Connell short story we read in high school, The Most Dangerous Game.”
“Our man is no General Zaroff. Zaroff believed he was hunting the scum of the earth, hardened sailors capable of giving him a modicum of a challenge. Our guy as much as shoots people in the back.”
“Zaroff didn’t meet his true match until Sanger Rainsford landed on the island.” Eyes narrow, Resnick added, “And Mathias is your Sanger Rainsford.”
“Our Sanger Rainsford, yes. There’s no doubt Mathias can hunt our man down. With time, it would be a good fight. But what happens in the meanwhile, Gloria? A dozen? Two dozen? A hundred more kills? Without Mathias, I’m convinced The Shooter will reach his one fifty-one objective. But he won’t break the record by gunning down some anonymous civilian.”
“Are you saying he’s after bigger game?”
“What marksman isn’t? A Presidential candidate or a Commander in Chief is an exceptional trophy to have hanging on the wall, don’t you think? His memory will live forever.”
Measuring her words, Resnick said, “What is it you’re not telling me, Berk?”
“It’s only chatter, for now, nothing concrete. As of this moment, you know what I know.”
“What is it you suspect?”
“The Shooter has a plan, Gloria. He’s no amateur, and he’s no psychopath.”
“An assassin?”
Berkshire shrugged.
“Paid?”
Again, Berkshire shrugged.
“Which explains Mathias.”
“It’s why I chose him in the first place.”
A lightning bolt of understanding. “You didn’t enlist Mathias to go after The Shooter; you planned for The Shooter to go after Mathias.”
Silence, Berkshire tonguing the rim of his tumbler like a serpent.
Feeling manipulated and used, Resnick said, “Well, you don’t have to worry about Mathias signing-on, Berk; he’s already volunteered.”
Berkshire nodded.
“Just like you knew he would; a man needing to make amends.”
Berkshire raised his glass. “Here’s to a man needing to make amends.”
FORTY-FOUR
Washington, DC
JUST AFTER ONE IN THE MORNING, his mobile phone rang. Assuming it was Tara, Mathias picked up at once. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”
“Excuse me?”
Deputy Director Resnick.
“Sorry, ma’am. I was expecting someone else.”
“Didn’t think I’d catch you asleep, Mathias.”
“I don’t need much.”
Resnick barked. “We should start a support group.”
“What can I do for you, ma’am?”
Dead air, Resnick deciding how to begin. Finally, she said, “I’ve been sitting here all night thinking about what you said on the plane, on the flight back from New Orleans.”
“Which part, ma’am?”
“Gloria, Mathias, otherwise I’ll make you rub my feet.”
“Sorry: Gloria.”
“The part about our Shooter being ex-military, very well trained, a unique breed of warrior.”
“Yes, ma—Gloria.”
Mathias could sense the Deputy Director cringe.
“I reached out to a high-level contact at DOD. As you can imagine, the Bureau’s track-record over the last few years what it is—not to mention 9/11—they were none too cooperative. Maybe it’s the late hour, maybe they didn’t appreciate being dragged from bed for anything less than a national security emergency. Mostly, the rest of the security apparatus in this country believes the FBI is a bunch of chuckleheads. Maybe they’re not too far wrong.”
Resnick paused. Seeking reassurance from Mathias? If so, it was not forthcoming.
“I suppose it’s why our mutual friend, Mr. Berkshire, offered-himself-up to me in the first place,” she continued. “Knowing we aren’t up to the task, knowing we’d be stonewalled or, worse, ignored. Knowing, despite our resources, we’re ill-suited to the job.”
“What job would that be, Gloria?”
Resnick laughed softly. “Et tu, Brute?”
“You’ve lost me, ma’am.”
“I apologize; it’s late, and I’m rambling.” Then, “Twenty minutes ago, I received a Classified communication to my inbox from the DOD; no source, no attribution. It’s a detailed bio
graphy of a Marine Corps Captain, a Navy SEAL Commander and Chief of SEAL Team number 9 in Iraq. Served alongside Chief Kyle before receiving his own command.
“This Captain saw action at the First Battle of Fallujah, otherwise known as Operation Vigilant Resolve. You might recall it was an operation meant to root out extremists and an attempt to apprehend the perpetrators in the killing and mutilation of four U.S. Blackwater private contractors and five American soldiers in Habbaniyah.”
“I recall,” Mathias said, holding his tone neutral.
“Of course, you do; you were there.”
Silence over the line.
Cursing Mathias his own resolve, Resnick said, “This SEAL Chief was attached to Marine Expeditionary Force One, First Battalion, Fifth Marines with a mandate to locate, close with, and destroy the enemy. By accounts, SEAL Team 9 was especially efficient even though, unofficially, the military considered the operation a disaster.”
Resnick paused. Mathias heard a faint smack of the lips and imagined her—at this hour—mainlining caffeine.
“Shortly after the failure of Fallujah One, the military launched Operation Phantom Fury, known otherwise as Fallujah Two. There, American troops found themselves up against battle-hardened Saddam loyalists, the ex-secret police, ex-special forces, and ex-Iraqi army Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld saw fit to dismantle, piss on, and leave unemployed—his dead-enders; radicalized U.S. sponsored Sunni insurgents armed with ordnance and weaponry courtesy of our own military.”
Recalling the engagement, Mathias listened without comment.
“The operation lasted three days shy of a month. When SEAL Team 9 was ordered to stand-down, to return to HQ, its leader and two Team members did not report. Naturally, it was thought they’d been ambushed en route. When this proved untrue, the brass decided the Commander and his small team had gone AWOL. In fact, they’d gone rogue.
“The subsequent rise in Fallujah of unsanctioned assassinations of insurgents by long-range sniper fire—numbering hundreds, including, I might add, a lot of bona fide bad guys—was suspected to be the work of the remnants of SEAL Team 9 while under contract to the U.S. sponsored provisional Iraqi government. Paid with American dollars, naturally.”
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