“What do you suggest?” the PC said.
“Shoot to kill on sight.”
“An execution?”
“Better for your men, sir, better for Bohannon. You won’t take him alive. Cut your losses, protect your men.”
“How can he do all this?”
Mathias shrugged. “I’m exceptionally good at what I do, sir. Bohannon is better.”
“The man is a Navy SEAL, not a Marvel comic superhero,” said the Chief of Ds, doubtful.
“Speak to the men who served under Chief Bohannon, sir. They’d beg to differ.”
“Forgive me if I’m unimpressed by a man who goes AWOL.”
“Rogue, sir, there’s a difference.”
Stiffening his spine, the Chief of Ds said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you sympathize. I served in the first Gulf War, you know.”
Mathias refrained from pointing out to the Chief that next to Iraq Chapter Two and Afghanistan, Iraq Chapter One was a schoolyard dust-up.
“Are you really the best man for the job?” he added.
“Enough,” said the Police Commissioner, slamming down a fist. “This isn’t a pissing match. I have only one question I want answered here and now and I don’t care a fiddler’s fart who answers it: will this man kill again in my City?”
“If I may, Mr. Commissioner?” Dabney Berkshire said, raising a hand.
Having no more love for the CIA than he did for the FBI, the PC said, “Speak.”
Sucking at his teeth, Berkshire said, “If it weren’t for Bohannon, Mathias would be dead, or worse, his naked and mutilated corpse dragged through the streets of Fallujah before being strung up on a bridge for the benefit of American national TV. This man,” he said, with a nod to Mathias, “owes his country nothing. He owes you, me, the rest of you in this room even less. He’s here of his own accord. We’d been chasing Bohannon nearly four months with nothing to show for it. Inside a month, we now have him disarmed and potentially contained.”
The Chief of Ds, about to respond, was stopped by the Police Commissioner, who raised a meaty palm. “Forgive me if I’m skeptical, Mr. Berkshire, Madam Deputy Director. Between the two of you, you couldn’t stop 9/11.”
In a silent lament, Resnick uttered When will it ever stop?
Berkshire acknowledged the rebuke with a simple nod. “We are not your father’s CIA, Mr. Commissioner.”
“The man has traveled cross-country for six months, you say. How does he finance his expedition?” said the Chief of Police.
Mathias answered. “Bohannon did not leave Iraq empty-handed.”
“Looting?” the Chief of Ds said.
“Freelancing. Bohannon had the support of the Shiite provisional government to take down Sunni insurgents, the ex-military and security forces once loyal to Saddam. The men still killing our troops. For this, he would be paid handsomely.”
“With American cash,” sighed the PC, shaking his head. “He could have made himself a fortune. Is there a way to track that back?”
Shaking his head, Berkshire said, “We’ve tried. Nothing, so far.”
“Same, here,” Resnick said. “The NSA would be helpful if we could get them to cooperate.”
“What’s stopping them?” said the PC.
Berkshire sighed. “Congress.”
Chaffing at his whiskered chin, the Police Commissioner said, “Leave it with me. The President owes me a favor—or three.”
“What’s the plan, here?” said the Chief of Ds, twitching like a man of action needing to act.
Once again, Resnick and Berkshire deferred to Mathias.
Over the next hour, Mathias explained what he would do.
SEVENTY-SIX
New York City, New York
TO BOHANNON, IT SEEMED every street corner, public transit stop, taxi stand, storefront, outdoor space, river overlook, bank entrance, and ATM was manned by a New York City patrol officer. The bill for overtime must be astronomical, he thought.
Feeling hemmed-in but not yet trapped, Bohannon assessed his options.
The improvised plan had been to debark the Tramway at the Queensboro Plaza and under cover of dark make his way northeast along 21st Street to the northernmost tip of Astoria Park. From there, a short swim across the East River landing him on Randall’s and Wards Islands. Here, a brief rest-stop for Cliff bars and Red Bull. After that, a short hike overland and back into the water at Randall’s Park. A second quick swim in the Harlem River making landfall in East Harlem before sunup the next day.
That was the plan.
Now, with eyes everywhere, his options were severely limited.
From a recessed doorway of a shop on 41st Avenue, Bohannon assessed the opposition. These were city cops, not battle-hardened Sunni insurgents. Before they knew it, he’d be on them near enough to disarm or to render them senseless.
Rarely in America do cops shoot first, ask questions later—unless, of course, you’re a black man. But leaving a bread-crumb trail of unconscious or dead cops throughout Queens on a path leading them directly to his escape route was hardly the best operational tactic.
Further limiting his options was a severely depleted supply of cash; less than a thousand dollars. Hardly enough to travel cross-country let alone to rearm. Though Bohannon still had the Magnum, it wasn’t his intention to go out in a firestorm of guts and glory.
Cops glory, his guts.
Bohannon walked two blocks north to the corner of 39th Avenue and 24th Street. There, he found a patrolman standing kitty-corner to a Bank of America branch with an ATM machine. The cop was young, a new recruit, and likely inexperienced.
First-thing-first, Bohannon decided.
Having traded the Yankees cap, tee, and short pants for a John Deere ball cap, Metallica hoodie, and blue jeans bought for cash from a second-hand shop, Bohannon crossed 39th at the light in line with a gaggle of a dozen other pedestrians. Wearing reflective shades, the cop clocked the intersection. Up and down, he scanned the street.
Just as Bohannon thought he was in the clear, the cop removed his sunglasses. As if staring directly at him, the young man returned the lenses to the bridge of his nose. Purposefully, he crossed through the intersection, heading for the ATM.
Reaching the curb, Bohannon made for the Bank of America main entrance. Hoping for safety in numbers, he entered. Moments later, the cop fell in behind.
“Stop,” the officer said, looking at Bohannon. Without hesitation, he withdrew his sidearm. To the bank patrons, he said, “Everyone out of the building, now.”
The brief lapse in attention allowed Bohannon to draw his own weapon hidden at the small of his back.
“No!” Bohannon shouted, leveling the Magnum. “First one to the door, dies.”
Unsure, the bank customers wavered.
“It’s okay folks, you can leave,” the cop said, reassurance overriding Bohannon’s command.
“You do not want to test me, son, no-siree, you do not. It’s too fine a day for these good people to shed blood. What say you and me mosey-on outside, parley, let these fine citizens enjoy another day over dinner with their kinfolk. They’ll laugh about this tomorrow.”
Surprisingly, the cop leveled his weapon. “No sir; orders are shoot to kill on sight.”
With that, the cop discharged his firearm. At the same time, Bohannon shifted position quickly to the right, just enough to avoid taking the shot center-mass. Simultaneously, Bohannon fired his own weapon: he did not miss. The projectile from the large caliber Magnum entered the cop’s chest dead-on, bursting his heart.
Bohannon was moving to the door before the first screams began.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
New York City, New York
“GODDAMN MATHIAS.”
Huddled in a makeshift camp of homeless people in a grimy back alley, Bohannon cursed. Though the gunshot wound was painful, he wouldn’t bleed out—not yet. Pain he could survive, catastrophic blood loss he could not.
“Goddamn Mathias,” Ezekiel Bohann
on repeated venomously through clenched teeth.
Mathias and only Mathias could orchestrate the siege of a city, communicate the level of threat. Like Atlanta, like Iraq, the military sweeping into a village like a fireball busting down doors, rousting civilians, shooting on sight anyone or anything that remotely smelled of Insurgent.
“Son-of-a-bitch, Mathias,” he said, this time loud enough to be overheard.
“What’s that?” a grizzled old degenerate said from two sewer grates over.
Bohannon grunted, wanting to but refraining from blowing the old man’s head clean off.
Blood loss and an overnight drop in temperature made Bohannon shiver. To stay warm and to soften the hard surface of the pavement, he went about the alleyway collecting abandoned blankets, strips of filthy, torn fabric, and discarded newspapers. The stink didn’t bother Bohannon; in battle, you smell much worse. Once or twice, he disturbed an indigent sleeping hidden beneath a heap of rubbish.
This is the Way of Life I fought so hard to preserve?
Bohannon was sorely tempted to do these sad bastards a solid: Withdraw the Magnum and blast away.
Settling down for the night with his meager possessions, Bohannon found himself a recessed nook midpoint in the laneway. It smelled like piss but had a clear view looking out to both ends of the alley. He didn’t think they’d search for him here, or a place like here. For that, they’d need a battalion, a thousand men or more.
Then again, Bohannon didn’t think they’d believe he would throw himself out a fifty-two-story window, either. For Bohannon, going street to street through the low buildings and alleys of Fallujah, mountaineering hadn’t been a priority. In Atlanta, the lobby of the Westin Peachtree presented the most logical path to escape. But for Mathias, sniping like a mountain goat in Afghanistan all those years, the window seemed the obvious choice.
Bohannon shook his head, believing that had Bohannon decided, Mathias would have let the FBI Agent in Atlanta die.
To create a cushion, Bohannon laid newspapers flat out on the pavement. The New York Times, the New York Post, USA Today, The Washington Post, traitors all. Setting down a filthy blanket over the newsprint, Bohannon’s eye caught a photo of himself on the front page of The Washington Post. Atlanta was weeks ago, why feature his face on the front page now?
Picking up the paper, reading above the photo, Bohannon scanned a screaming headline two-inches-high:
ASSASSINATION IN CENTRAL PARK
SNIPER BOHANNON SHOOTS DIRECTOR OF THE FBI, PRESIDENTIAL HOPEFUL CHARLES PADGETT
—PADGETT WOUNDED BUT WILL SURVIVE—
New York, New York: Described by witnesses as reminiscent of the fateful day in Dallas fifty-six years ago when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated, Director of the FBI Charles Padgett was critically wounded in Central Park, yesterday, by an assassin’s bullet. Standing on a raised platform with his wife by his side, Chairman of the Senate Standing Committee on Crime and Terrorism Alexis Kim, Padgett was hit once in the chest by a 375-caliber bullet fired from a distance by former Navy SEAL Captain Ezekiel Bohannon. Channeling former First Lady the late Jackie Kennedy, Kim rushed to her husband’s side shielding him with her own body while at the same time staunching the flow of blood from the wound.
“Heroic,” witnesses to the bloody scene described Ms. Kim’s actions.
At the time of the shooting, the Park was filled with children and parents enjoying free beverages, snacks, and rides on the Central Park Carousel courtesy of Padgett who announced his bid for the Republican Presidential nomination. In a highly expected move, Padgett is favored by many to replace the current President—plagued by missteps and scandal—in the 2020 General election. Pundits predict the Republican nominee will easily defeat any of the candidates from a weaker than expected Democratic field.
Bohannon stared at the page. Disbelieving, he reread the article. It went on to describe his sniping position on the unfinished ninety-second level of Central Park Tower, New York’s newest, tallest, and most costly residential condominium development. It described police finding the weapon—a used CheyTac M300 sniper rifle you could buy in a pawn shop or online—in a toilet stall in a diner across from Central Park. Forensics confirmed Bohannon’s fingerprints all over the weapon and that it had been fired recently.
A separate article described the shootout in the Bank of America, the young officer described as a hero. There were interviews with his family, his friends, other cops, eyewitnesses, and survivors, who credited the cop for saving lives.
Another article revealed a high-level meeting with NYPD brass joined by the Deputy Director of the FBI, a man from the CIA, and Mathias who together planned the capture of the would-be assassin.
Except Ezekiel Bohannon hadn’t taken the shot!
Bohannon’s teeth chattered. He rifled through the rest of the edition. On page four, below the fold, he found an article titled The Woman Responsible for Saving Super-Sniper’s Life, by a reporter Clayton Brux. Embedded within the body of the article was the photo of a young woman, dark hair, pretty, but looking too severe for Bohannon’s taste. An employee mugshot, he decided. The caption named her as Tara McDonald.
According to the reporter, Tara was an extraction specialist with Brookbank Security Solutions responsible for removing injured contractors from the field in Afghanistan, transporting them to hospital in Germany, and returning them home to America to convalesce. A bunch more yadda-yadda, then “…awarded a thirty thousand dollar per month pension for life and a one-million-dollar lump sum payment.”
After which Mathias moved to a horse ranch in Utah, followed shortly after that by Tara McDonald. Also, according to the article, they’d been an item going on seven years. In closing, the piece said McDonald had vacated the ranch in Antimony, Utah, to live with her sister Allison in Carmel-by-the-Sea, California.
Squatting, rigid, Bohannon smoldered. After a while, he settled. Cautiously, he tore the edges around the offending news-piece, folding the paper four times before sliding the article into his rear pocket.
Afterward, for a long while, Ezekiel Bohannon lay thinking, contemplating the graffiti on a brick wall opposite.
Don’t shit in the alley, it’s your home, said one slogan. Don’t worry, tomorrow you’ll be dead, said another.
Settling into an uneasy sleep of semi-wakefulness typical to soldiers in the field, his final thought before drifting off was:
Fucking Mathias!
SEVENTY-EIGHT
New York City, New York
IN THE MILITARY, a service member who is Absent Without Leave for thirty days is considered to have deserted his or her post. Desertion carries a maximum punishment of dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of all pay, and confinement of five years in a Federal facility. For desertion during a time of war, however, a penalty of death can be applied at the discretion of the court-martial.
Though Sargent William “Jackie” Chan was spared death by the court-martial after deserting his post in two thousand four during the war in Iraq, his sentence was increased from five to twelve years owing to his participation in the slaughter of innocent Iraqis after the American retreat from Fallujah.
Shunned and abandoned by family, after his release in two thousand sixteen at age thirty-nine, rather than returning to Austin, Texas, Chan moved to a city more suited to his liking and his particular set of skills: New York.
In New York City, Chan fell in with a group of mainland Chinese buying high-end U.S. industrial electronics. The group specialized in shipping the merchandise to Shanghai, copying the technology, and shipping the re-manufactured goods back into the U.S. at a fraction of the cost to consumers. As a side business, they ran underground gambling dens throughout New York State and New Jersey. Given his talents, Chan was employed by the group to collect outstanding debt.
Though standing only five foot five and weighing one hundred twenty-eight pounds, William “Jackie” Chan was known as a man who could make men talk. In fact, Jackie was known among his
fellow SEALS as someone who could make men sing!
Not only was Chan shocked when he received the telephone call from SEAL Team 9 Chief Ezekiel Bohannon, but he was also thrilled.
“I thought the rag-heads got to you, Chief, strung you up from a lamppost. I couldn’t believe it when I saw your picture in the news. Hot-dog, I said, the Chief is alive? Hot-diggety-fucking-dog!”
“I don’t have a lot of time, Jackie. I’ll catch-you-up when we meet. Right now, I need a favor.”
“Favor? Favor? A dozen men I know would take down names for you Chief, no questions asked, no matter what the papers say.”
Which Bohannon knew wasn’t entirely accurate. He sighed.
“Keep it on the down-low, Jackie, strictly QT between you and me. I’m stuck in Queens, up shits-creek without a paddle, so to say. I need an extraction.”
“Gimme’ an address,” said Chan. “By morning, you’ll be sleeping on silk sheets.”
“I appreciate it, Jackie. First, I need a doctor. And I need cash.”
SEVENTY-NINE
Somewhere in the Florida Keys
FOR ROD HATHAWAY, the late-night call from his former CO was more a nightmare than it was a thrill.
Since receiving the call from Bohannon, his gut ached. A nervous disquiet he’d never experienced in battle—even when faced with imminent death and dismemberment—gripped him like a cancer gnawing at his belly. As a twenty-three-year-old hophead high on whatever prescription and non-prescription pill he could steal or scrounge, his attitude in the field had been, What, me worry?
Since learning on CNN of Ezekiel Bohannon’s return from the grave, for the first time in his life, Mad Max Hathaway was afraid, scared squirt shitless.
Following Mission Accomplished, Hathaway had been intent on only two things: killing Iraqi men and bedding their women. It was a toss-up which got him stiffer. Never a flag-waving patriot, he’d joined the military only to avoid potential charges of sexual assault of a co-worker and aggravated battery of her boyfriend.
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