by Sam Jones
It was all over.
And now the rest was dealing with the blowback.
Kruger had been hauled off by a bunch of guys in polo shirts in an unmarked car after they were taken into custody, much to the dismay of several other agencies looking to lay claim to his arrest over the course of a half hour.
But Billy wasn’t shocked in the slightest.
He knew the people who ended up flashing a bunch of credentials and connections to scare the shit out of the other agencies before peeling out of the lot with Kruger. It was the same guys who stopped him in Miami.
The motherfuckin’ CIA.
And they finally got Kruger.
They finally got their man.
They finally got what they wanted.
Ferris and the other agencies—which consisted of the FBI, Long Beach PD, and the Coast Guard—argued, accommodated, and worked the scene as crews came in to survey, repair, and deal with the litany of damage that had been caused. The fate of Billy Reese was weighed and debated, but the agencies never reached any kind of conclusion.
An hour after the showdown on the docks, about thirty minutes after the spooks hauled Kruger away, Ferris came into the office Billy was locked in, excused the patrolman guarding the door, and stood with her back to the corner of the room. Things were quiet for a good chunk of time.
“The girl,” Billy said. “Analena. Maria was looking for her back in Miami. I guess Kruger had her the whole time.”
Ferris had done a little digging when she accompanied the girl to the ambulance. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what it looks like.”
More silence.
All Billy could think to say was, “So what happens now?”
All Ferris could think to do was shrug.
Things remained that indecisive and uncertain for the next couple of days.
Billy was flown back to DC in the FBI’s custody. The situation was unprecedented. They weren’t quite sure how to handle it. One of their agents had gone from investigating the death of one their own to shooting his way across the country trying to apprehend him. It was a FUBAR situation that contained missing pieces of a puzzle, a bad guy who used to be a good guy—who was now in the hands of government spies—and a significant amount of destruction left behind in the wake of the so-called investigation that surrounded it.
The higher-ups locked Billy in a hotel room not far from the Hoover Building for several days after the disaster at the marina. He did nothing the entire time but watch television and order room service on the government dime, strictly forbidden to leave or call or do anything he was not explicitly ordered to do while they tried to make sense of the mess and determine exactly what his culpability was and how he would have to pay for it.
But Billy was occupied by enough thoughts to make a sane person crazy the entire time he was cooped up in that shitty room at the Hilton that he wasn’t bored. He dwelled on other things. He focused on thoughts of Sykes, thoughts of Kruger, thoughts of Tommy, thoughts of Maria, thoughts of everything. His world was inside out. Upside down. Back to front. Nothing would ever be the same again, and the men and women in suits would determine whatever his future held over at the good old Federal Bureau of Investigation like the ass-covering, bureaucratic paper-pushers they were.
Two weeks after the dust had settled and a few (semi) healed bruises and bones later, Ferris came knocking at Billy’s hotel room. Billy was freshly showered and shaved, clean but with a profusion of halfway-healed cuts and bruises on his face and a bandage over his broken nose.
He looked bad.
Really, really bad.
When Ferris came calling, Billy was watching a news report on the television about the incident back in Long Beach, which was now being reported as a “mechanical error” that claimed the lives of six people.
Billy shook his head.
Horse. Shit.
Fucking news.
Fucking US government.
Ferris knocked on the door.
Billy moved to open it.
“It’s time,” she said after he opened the door, both of them wearing looks like they were marching toward a shooting squad.
The car ride over felt very official with Ferris behind the wheel and Billy in the passenger’s seat, staring blankly out the window with an expression on his face like his mother was forcing him to go return something he stole from the convenience store.
After a few moments of nothing, Ferris said, “You’re going to have a talk with Director Brogan first. Do you know where his office is at?”
Billy said, “I do.”
A few blocks from the Hoover Building, Billy spoke up. “Any predictions?” he asked Ferris, hoping maybe she had an early scoop on his verdict.
“I can’t say for sure,” she said. “It’s been…I don’t know. I’m waiting for them to nail me to the wall, too.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“That’s what they’re saying, in regard to me stopping you: I didn’t do anything. Hell, I’m surprised they even trusted me enough to bring you in today.”
Billy exhaled.
Waited.
He asked her, “Did I do the right thing?”
More time passed.
“I don’t know, Billy,” Ferris said. “I don’t know…”
They drove, nothing but the rumbling of the motor passing the time.
Ferris then took a right, the Hoover Building now visible two hundred yards down on their right. Billy felt a tug in his stomach when he saw it, the building looming and ominous and inciting a feeling similar to the days when he was called into the principal’s office, multiplied by a million.
Ferris pulled to the curb, put the sedan into park, and left the engine on.
Billy looked at the building.
And waited.
“For what it’s worth,” he said to Ferris. “I’m sorry for everything.”
“I made my choices, Billy.”
He shrugged. “Still…”
A beat.
Billy went to leave.
“Hey,” Ferris called out.
Billy turned around.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “I still like you.”
Billy smiled.
It was nice to know that a few people were on his side.
He opened the door, closed it, and began ascending the steps toward the front doors, a little more relaxed and accepting of a negative outcome. He became as carefree and brazen as a man strolling through the park.
65
BILLY WAS FINISHING up the tail end of recapping the last four weeks of his life with Executive Assistant Director Donald “Rubber Band” Brogan. When he finished, he sat back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and relaxed. In a lot of ways, he felt like he had unloaded a freight train worth of issues in a therapist’s office.
It felt good.
But he still felt shitty overall.
“That it?” lanky Brogan asked Billy, still as uptight and tense as he was when they started the meeting an hour earlier.
“Other than the parts I don’t know,” Billy said. “I don’t know what Kruger sent in to Bogotá, I don’t know where it went, and I don’t know where he went. All I do know is that a good cop died because of him.”
Brogan was silent.
Then he just said it.
“I don’t see a way that ends with you not being pressed with charges.”
Billy’s heart skipped a beat.
I figured.
“It’s all comes down to what you tell OPR and Deputy Director Frost in the next hour,” Brogan said. “You might get a deal cut, but I don’t see a way that this ends without you losing your job and some jail time. You tore up Miami and Chicago, and you rang up millions of dollars in damage down in Long Beach. Putting it simply”—Brogan closed the file he had open and tossed it to the side—“you’re fucked, and I hope it was all worth it.”
Billy took a beat. “What about the girl?” he asked Brogan. “Analena? The one I found
on Kruger’s boat.”
Brogan rested his elbows on his desk and leaned forward, his temperance going from agitated and hostile to a little more calm and even. “Miami Dade contacted her parents,” he said. “She’s got a long road ahead of her, and there’s a lot of damage that can’t be undone…but she’s home.”
Billy took another beat.
Silver linings…
He cleared his throat. Swallowed. “Well,” he said. “Where do we go from here, Mr. Brogan?”
Brogan waited a tick.
He stood up, grabbed his jacket, and told Billy, “Come with me.”
Billy slowly rose out of his chair. “Where?”
“Just keep your mouth shut,” Brogan said as he moved toward the door, “and follow me.”
Billy, his mind now playing pinball, followed after Brogan as they moved out of the office, down the hall, and toward the elevators.
Brogan hit up on the button panel.
Uh-oh.
Nothing good ever happens upstairs.
66
THE TOP FLOOR. A dark floor, filled with soundproof conference rooms made of fogged-up glass with little red lights outside the doors that told whoever was not inside to stay the hell outside. Even Brogan appeared nervous as he and Billy approached one of the conference rooms on their left—the only one with a red light on over the door. Brogan opened the door, held it for Billy, and closed it once they were both inside.
Inside the room was a conference table surrounded by rolling chairs. Sitting at two of the chairs were two men that Billy recognized immediately. In the chair to his left was a man he was not entirely surprised to see: the raven-haired CIA clown that told him to back off their case a few weeks ago in Miami, still dressed in a polo shirt and partway lounging in his rolling chair, complete cock of the walk.
But the man across from him, in the chair to Billy’s right, was someone that Billy had never expected to see again. The muscles in his jaw tightened the moment he laid eyes on him.
Dizzy Alvaro. The cretin who set up the deal where everything fell apart.
Dizzy. Fucking. Alvaro.
Except Dizzy wasn’t wearing his coke-bottle glasses. He wasn’t dressed like an asshole or prancing around like a dip to Gloria Estefan on a yacht. He was wearing a clean and plain suit, his pencil-thin moustache was shaved off, and his straight and proud posture and presence was indicative of a man in control, a man in power.
A man in the motherfuckin’ CIA.
“Agent Reese,” Dizzy said, minus the Cuban accent and without the nasally inflection. “Take a seat.”
Billy took the seat at the head of the table; Dizzy and the raven-haired man sat at the opposite end, and Brogan sat to the right of Billy. As he slid down in his chair, Billy couldn’t help but marvel at how well Dizzy had fooled him back in Miami.
“Man,” he said to Dizzy. “That was some acting job you pulled on me back in Miami. You should be on fucking Carson. Seriously.”
Billy flattened his hand, pretended it was a plane, and did a flyby over the top of his head with a “whoosh” sound to accompany it. “So, what do I call you?” he said. “What’s your real name?”
Dizzy let off a tight-lipped grin. “You can just keep calling me Dizzy for sake of the conversation, which is going to be brief.”
“You got a shit ton of explaining to do,” Billy said. “There are a lot of unanswered questions about this whole thing.”
“And there still will be when we’re finished. We’re running the program here, Reese. You just managed to hang on to this thing longer than you should have.”
Billy took a beat. “Where’s Kruger?”
“He’s in our custody,” Dizzy said. “He’s our problem now. The FBI’s involvement in this case, as of this point, is terminated.”
“By whose authority?”
Dizzy shot him a look. “Try the president’s.”
Silence carried for a beat.
“This investigation,” Dizzy continued, “is over. The CIA will confiscate any and all files, memos, recordings, and pieces of evidence related to the case of Special Agent Andrew Sykes the moment we leave this room. You will then cease any and all investigations into the matter, and Special Agent William Reese will return to work as a UCA. Discipline him how you see fit. Make it look good. But keep him on board.”
Billy couldn’t believe his ears.
Maybe I do have a concussion.
Brogan nodded. “Understood.”
What the hell?
Billy turned his sights on Brogan. “What is this?”
Brogan said nothing, his eyes saying everything: Come on, you moron. You know what the score is.
“You were in on this,” Billy said to him. “You were in on this from the get? You let the CIA use me like a pawn? What did you get out of it?”
Again, Brogan gave him nothing.
But saying nothing had somehow confirmed everything.
Billy didn’t know what to think.
“This is all you need to know, Reese,” Dizzy said. “So I’ll simply state the facts to you. At least what I’m allowing you to know.”
Billy snickered. Looked away.
Dizzy continued. “When Sykes went undercover, he struck up a relationship with Rico Castillo’s rival. That rival offered Sykes a huge sum of money to rise up the ranks in Castillo’s operation as his mole. Kruger’s goal was to gain influence, turn Hector Fuentes against Rico Castillo, and then dispose of Castillo. Once all was said and done, Kruger then handed over the reins of the operation to this new dealer for a nifty little payout. That happened, you found him, and then we took him. That’s the story, and that’s the end of it.”
“What about this thing Kruger was doing in Bogotá?” Billy asked.
“You don’t need to know.”
Billy kicked his chair back and stood in the corner.
Take a time out.
“The CIA will take care of the cleanup,” Dizzy continued. “The proper parties will have their losses covered: Chicago, Miami, Long Beach. Everybody involved that suffered collateral damage. The proper action will be taken, and the proper restitutions will be made.”
Billy turned around. “You can’t just cover something like this up.”
Dizzy showcased a self-assured grin. “It’s what we do for a living, Agent Reese. And you will be hearing from us when the time comes. Until that time, you’re going to keep your head down and your mouth shut and perform your job as an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation diligently.”
Billy processed the news.
Then he thought of a few questions. “Tommy and Heather Sykes,” he said. “What about them?”
“What about them?”
“Sykes had me convinced he kidnapped them to draw me out into the open. They’re unharmed, as far as I know—”
“They are.”
“How? How did he pull that off? I called their number and he answered.”
Dizzy squinted and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Christ, Reese. The guy had a shitload of money and connections. How hard would it have been him to find someone surveillance whiz to help him tap into his wife’s phone and use it to bait you? Kruger was involved in psychological operations during the war, you schmuck. He knew how to beat you before you even made your move. The fact that he knew you gave him a big advantage, and you’re questioning how it is he did what he did? You need to lighten the fuck up, buddy.”
Billy remained composed.
But he wanted to leap across the table and pummel Dizzy in the balls.
He moved back to the chair and sat down, brushing invisible lint off the table as he said, “You can sit here and rail on me all you want, but last I checked, you relied on me to find Sykes because you pinhead idiots couldn’t do it yourself.”
“It’s not that we couldn’t, Reese,” Dizzy said patronizingly. “It’s because only the FBI can work inside the states. We do the out-of-country work. You know that. This isn’t the first time this play has been made. Sur
e as shit won’t be the last.”
“Like you assholes care about jurisdiction.”
“You’re right. But I’m not going to give you my reasons for letting you put in the legwork on this one. You did what we needed to get done. You’re the guy that gets dirty so that other people can stay clean. You break the rules, someone else takes the credit for the results, and you get thrown under the bus. It’s what you do, Reese. Think of yourself like a kamikaze with nine lives. All I did was use that to my advantage. What happens now is that you’ll walk away and suffer the consequences, and I’ll slip back into the shadows without losing a shred of sleep over anything that went down between us.”
Glares. Stares. Intentions to kill.
But no one in the room acted on them.
Billy, calm and cool asked, “What story did you hand to Heather and Tommy Sykes? They think that Sykes is dead—”
“And it’s going to stay that way,” Dizzy cut in. “The narrative for them hasn’t changed, and you’re going to make sure it stays that way. As far as the Sykes family is concerned, Andrew Sykes was killed by a member of Rico Castillo’s operation, his remains were buried, and his pension will still be divvied out to them accordingly. And you will forget the past three months like it never happened, because I said so.”
Billy breathed. Tried to control his tension. This CIA pissant was stating facts to him, not indulging in a conversation. This whole thing was going to go only one way: his.
And it was driving Billy up the fucking wall.
“Again,” Dizzy said, “when you leave this room, everything that happened in the past few weeks is history. Never to be spoken of again. If you do, we’ll know, and you know that we’ll know.”
Easy.
Don’t light off.
Dizzy then asked, “Are we clear?”
A beat.
“Maria Delgado is dead,” Billy said. “And Kruger is responsible.”
Dizzy perched his elbows on the table, folded his arms, and stared down Billy. “And whose fault do you think that is? You sauntered around like some B movie cowboy without a plan, and you’re looking to hold the death of someone you were pretty much directly accountable for on someone else? You’re not a hero, Reese. Heroes aren’t rogues operating by their own set of rules.”