by JC Ryan
By the fourth of July, he’d have made his long-delayed escape from the town he called Sin City, Washington DC.
Naturally, he’d have to worry about who the clowns in charge would put in Carson’s place, and what cockamamie schemes they’d assign him. But that was for another day. He was content to worry about one at a time.
Marissa showed up before two o’clock in her disguise, for his approval. He couldn’t believe the difference. She’d covered the startling blue of her eyes with green contacts, drawn freckles on her silky skin with an eyeliner pencil, and disguised her shiny black hair with what he would have called a fright wig – a mop of unruly red curls, needing a wash. If he’d passed her on the street, he wouldn’t have known her, and neither would her own mother.
“Yes, that should do nicely. Now, you need to get to the course on your own. I wouldn’t be seen with the likes of you,” he teased.
Marissa put on a Cockney accent. “Right-o, guvner.” She winked and mock-saluted him, then left, laughing.
It was over the top, to be sure, but she wouldn’t speak until Brandt introduced her to Carson, by which time she’d be herself again. Brandt relaxed. This was going to work just as he’d planned. The only question was which option Carson would choose. Brandt made a bet with himself, and then called downstairs for a car to take him to the last meeting he’d ever have with the guy.
***
CARSON STRODE CONFIDENTLY in Brandt’s direction at the tee of the first hole. He was ten minutes late, and it was deliberate. Brandt could tell from the smirk on Carson’s face.
“Glad you could make it,” Brandt said mildly. He refused to rise to the bait of Carson’s rudeness.
“Sorry I’m late. Important business,” Carson said.
Brandt knew he just couldn’t resist rubbing someone’s nose in his importance.
We’ll talk about important business very soon, asshole.
They hit off. They walked and the golf cart, driven by the red-haired caddy, followed them. Carson ignored it as Brandt had hoped. Brandt surveyed the rest of the course, as far as he could see and worked out, if the group behind and the one ahead proceeded with average speed, he and Carson would be out of sight of anyone else once they were on the third hole. Until then, he’d pretend to be upset that his game had deteriorated so much since he played last.
Carson would relax and begin to taunt him, if not before, then certainly by the third hole. It would be too much for Carson to remain quiet.
It played out exactly as he’d foreseen. Carson had him by four strokes after the second hole and was beginning to act like his obnoxious self. When they got to the tee on the third, a par three hole, Brandt spoke as casually as if he were discussing the game.
“I know you had something to do with my man and his team being killed in Afghanistan.”
Carson startled, but he recovered quickly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turned and lined up for his shot.
“Oh, I think you do. We’re going to talk about that now, before we go any further.”
“Seriously, Brandt, what’s gotten into you…” Carson stopped talking abruptly as he saw the top picture on the stack that Brandt shoved under his nose. “What the hell is this?”
“Take a look. When you’re finished, you’ll tell me the truth.”
Carson’s skin tone began to turn a bit green as he looked at the explicit photos of his latest adventure with that exotic creature at the club.
“Where did you get these? I’ll say they were faked. Anyone can fake a photo these days,” he spluttered.
“There’s more. Keep your voice down. Go ahead and play, or the next party will be on top of us in a moment.”
Carson, acting like a man who’d had too much to drink, tried to ignore what he just saw, lined up, and hooked the ball straight into the rough. He’d have to take a penalty shot.
Brandt laid one expertly, ten feet from the flag.
As they walked to the place where Carson’s ball had disappeared into the trees and undergrowth, Brandt said, “You’re going to have to play it as it lies.” He wasn’t talking about the ball.
Carson shook his head. “You may have assets, but I have more. I’ll destroy you.”
“Tsk, tsk, Carson. Surely you don’t think I’m an idiot, do you? My lawyer has copies, and have you forgotten there’s a witness? There’s nothing you can do to stop this filth from being released if you don’t tell me the truth.”
Carson stopped walking and turned to Brandt, his face nearly purple with wrath. “All right. Here’s the truth. Yes, I arranged the greeting party for your man and his team. You have no idea who he was messing with, destroying labs and products. He was told to gather intel only. Instead he went on a rampage. He had to be stopped.”
“Why? Because you’re involved in the trafficking? My God, man, how did you get into the position as DCIA?”
“I happen to have a very influential friend,” Carson sneered. “He’s untouchable, and he vouched for me.”
“I have a feeling you’re going to say he’s involved in the trafficking, too.”
“Not directly, but you know as well as I do that official policy has been hands off. Taking on the heroin trade would destabilize the country. Your man was acting directly against orders.”
Brandt had to admit the last part was true. Rex acted outside the parameters of his brief. But he understood it, perhaps better than Rex did himself. The heroin trade supported terrorism, and Brandt knew that Rex hated terrorists more than anything — to him, they were the devil incarnate. He also knew why. He didn’t blame Rex for coloring outside the lines.”
“Who is it?” he asked Carson.
“Who is what?”
“Your ‘friend’. What’s his name? What’s his position?”
Carson started to protest, saw the look in Brandt’s eye, and told him. He didn’t care that Brandt knew the name. There was nothing Brandt could do, anyway. Unless he somehow discovered the Senator was also part of the club that showed all too clearly in those photos.
“And who pulls the Senator’s strings? You and I both know he’s too senile to run an operation this big.”
“I don’t know.”
“No? I think you do. I think you know quite a few of the people involved. Give me their names or these photos go to the press.”
Carson summoned courage from somewhere and shook his head. “No. I told you, if those are disseminated, I’ll say they’re fake. Who are people going to believe, a nobody like you, or the respected head of the CIA?”
“Let’s get one thing straight, Carson. Nobody respects you. Not even your deputies. And what do you reckon they will think of you after seeing these?”
Brandt let his smile grow into an evil grin. “I think it’s time you meet our caddy.” He nodded for Marissa to join them.
The caddy, who Carson had thought to be a teenager with unfortunate hair, stepped out of the cart. She — for it obviously wasn’t a boy — shook out a mane of glorious, jet-black hair and stared at him with familiar eyes.
A smile grew slowly on her beautiful face as she held out her hand.
“We meet again,” she said.
The color drained from Carson’s face, as he said, “You!”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Ronald Reagan Washington International Airport, July 2, 3:15 p.m.
BRUCE CARSON CHECKED his watch nervously. His flight was late. The cold front that had made yesterday so pleasant had bumped up against a strong tropical storm, and now hurricane warnings were threatening to keep him from honoring the promise he’d made to John Brandt the previous afternoon.
If he wasn’t out of town within the hour, the shit was going to hit the fan. Not that it hadn’t been spread around already by what he’d had to do. His wife was at home, in tears. He’d given her an ultimatum. Go with him to Costa Rica, where they’d change their names and never have contact with anyone in their lives again, or divorce. It didn’t surprise him that she’d ch
osen divorce. He’d told her Costa Rica as a diversion. She’d never find him to extract spousal support where he was really going.
He’d emptied their joint bank account, and he had a few hidden ones his wife didn’t know about. He could live like a king in a place that didn’t have extradition treaties with the US, but he’d bounce around for a while to keep Brandt from finding him. The agreement was he’d go somewhere far away from the US and fake his death. Otherwise, Brandt would see to it that he died, and not in a fake way.
Brandt had given him two alternatives: disappear or die. It had been put a little more savagely after he’d convinced the man that he really didn’t know who was above the Senator in the chain of command. Before that, he’d given Brandt a name, rank, and serial number of everyone he did know about. The number of high ranking officials and military officers in the network had shocked Brandt.
“You are the worst kind of human there could be. I hesitate to even give you the honor of that description. You’re worse than a terrorist.”
That was when the beautiful creature who’d given him such pleasure two nights before walked up and slapped him, then she took a small step back and kicked him in the groin. Somehow, those actions didn’t give him the same pleasure as her whip had.
Brandt had started talking again. “I should kill you where you stand, but I’m not going to dirty my hands. You have a choice. One, you disappear in the next twenty-four hours and just mail in your retirement letter. Go live in Afghanistan with your real friends. Become a Muslim, join the jihad — you might as well, you’ve been funding them. I don’t care where you go or what you do. But you will be out of this country within twenty-four hours, or I’ll find you and help you execute the alternative.
“Alternative. What’s that alternative?” he’d asked.
“You could shoot yourself in the head. Eat your gun. I’m betting you don’t have the guts to do it, but if you surprise me, I’ll be sure to name the toilet at CRC headquarters after you to commemorate your passing. Nice bronze plaque and all.
“But Carson, believe me when I say, if I ever see you again it will be too soon, and I will kill you then. That’s not a threat, it’s a promise.”
It had been no alternative at all. Not to a coward like Carson.
Of course, he wouldn’t go to Afghanistan. He was flying tonight to the Marshall Islands. From there, he’d make the rest of the necessary arrangements, and then he’d go somewhere else. He’d pick out another nice country with no extradition treaty and plenty of pretty girls, and he’d live happily ever after.
That was the plan. But if his flight didn’t take off soon, he fully expected to see John Brandt coming after him like the wrath of God.
Just then, he heard his flight called. Maybe the hurricane had been downgraded. Whatever had happened, he was grateful. He never wanted to lay eyes on Brandt again.
***
JOHN BRANDT SAT ten yards from Carson, lurking behind a newspaper. He was also waiting for the flight to be called, but he was prepared to carry out his threat if it couldn’t depart. It didn’t matter that Carson had chosen to leave and was making a bona fide effort to do so. If the twenty-four-hour mark came before Carson got on a plane, he’d suffer a heart attack right here in the departure area.
When the flight was called, it was almost a let-down for Brandt. But then he remembered Longland’s prophecy. He grinned savagely.
It doesn’t matter where you go, you scum-bag. The Ghost will find you.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
New Delhi, India July 4, 2014
WHEN THE CALL came, at last, to meet with the forger, Rex responded with alacrity. Should he bring Digger? No, the dog’s papers wouldn’t require photo ID. He apologized to the dog and left him sulking in the hotel room. As he left, he put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. He didn’t want a chambermaid to have a heart attack when surprised by an enormous black dog in a room where he didn’t belong.
Rex took the precaution of walking several blocks before hailing a bicycle rickshaw to take him to within a block or two of the address he’d been given. It was probably an excess of caution, but his long study of spycraft had taught him it was better to assume someone was stalking you and take measures to foil them, than to assume no one was and be unpleasantly surprised.
He arrived at the forger’s address in due time. During the ensuing half hour interview, he provided his new name, Ruan Daniel, French. In ancient times, in Gaelic-speaking countries, given the name Ruan meant the bearer would have had red hair. Rex left after haggling over the price of Digger’s papers, two-thousand dollars poorer, but satisfied that the papers would stand up to all but the most expert scrutiny. In a few days, he would collect the papers and be able to leave this city for his next destination.
He’d made a list of the sites in India he’d always been interested in seeing. Soon, he’d be a tourist, happily making his way from one site to the next and doing his best not to think about terrorists and drugs and evildoers or the life he’d left behind.
And Digger’s welfare, of course. His trusty service dog…
While he waited for his papers to be ready, Rex considered what the forger had told him. It might be best to feign different disabilities in different places. Digger’s vest proclaiming him a service dog was not required. In fact, it would raise suspicion among the truly disabled, especially in America should he return there, and in Europe as well. In the current climate of political correctness, he had only to say Digger was a service dog. In most first-world countries, follow-up questions about his disability would be in some cases politically incorrect and in others illegal. That suited him just fine. In some third-world countries, it would make absolutely no difference in how Digger was received anyway.
Nevertheless, he decided it would be a good idea to visit a few doctors and bribe them to give him letters that stated Rex needed to have the dog with him at all times. Having at least three letters from three different physicians, one each for PTSD, diabetes, and seizure alert, could be very helpful.
Digger would probably welcome not having the vest on. He’d made his opinion of it known to Rex, and Rex had insisted he wear it anyway. He couldn’t wait to tell Digger they could get rid of it. Digger’s bulletproof vest had been left at the Phoenix compound, along with everything Rex had owned, when they abandoned Afghanistan. Rex saw no need to replace it — he didn’t intend to get into any firefights from now on.
When at last the forger called to say the papers were ready, Rex went after them eagerly. It wasn’t lost on him that this was Independence Day, or it would be when the clock ticked past midnight in a few hours.
Independence, for him, would begin today.
It was already late afternoon in New Delhi, but he intended to leave as soon as he got back to the hotel with the papers. It would take only a few minutes to pack up and check out.
Then he’d be on his way.
***
HE WAS IN the van, Digger in the passenger seat next to him, head out the window and tongue hanging out looking very happy to be back on the road again.
Rex was deep in brown study, looking back on what had happened over the past year or so to bring him to this point.
He remembered reading something about the Rule of Three, or the Power of Three. A notion which suggested that things that come in threes are funnier, more satisfying, more effective, or more memorable, than the combination of other numbers of things.
Trevor had told him that a dog had to be showed something only three times and it would never forget it. Rex had no opinion about that. Thus far, he was the pupil and Digger the teacher. And since the night of the explosion when Trevor and the others were killed, and he and Digger were forced to work together, Rex had learned that the synergy of a dog and human working together was so much more than just human plus dog equals a force of two.
The combination produced a third force.
Human plus dog equals three.
“The power of three,” he wh
ispered and smiled.
~~The End~~
Rex Dalton’s Next Adventure
Unchained
Rex Dalton and his new friend, the military dog, Digger escaped from Afghanistan and made their way into India where they started a new life.
Within a few weeks, Dalton had a new name, a new passport and no worries about money. He and Digger were on their way to Kapal Mochan, India, where Rex intended to dip his hand into a sacred spring.
But then Digger started shifting around in the front passenger seat and looking at him as if to say, “So, when are you going to stop and give a dog a chance to go to the toilet?”
UNCHAINED
A REX DALTON THRILLER
BOOK 3
JC Ryan
Chapter One
WEEKS LATER, REX Dalton would reflect that the pivot point was when Digger started shifting around in the front passenger seat and looking at him as if to say, “So, when are you going to stop and give a dog a chance to go to the toilet?”
Rex would have enjoyed being a tourist if he had just been able to control his decisions on his own. Instead, he had to cater to his dog, Digger’s whims, always insisting on having an opinion of his own, which more often than not was the opposite of what Rex had in mind.
They were on their way to Kapal Mochan, India, where Rex intended to dip his hand into a sacred spring, a symbolic act he’d only half articulated even to himself. They were two or three miles short of the goal when Digger bounded through from the back of the van and sat in the front passenger seat.
Surely, he can wait a couple of minutes.
Digger chose that moment to yawn widely, ending on a whine. That was it. Digger’s way of answering his thoughts, which the dog seemed to be able to read at will.
A yawn often means the dog is anxious. He’d looked it up, when he finally had a chance. What did he know about dogs? Virtually nothing. For a guy who’d been trained as an assassin, a one-man army and intelligence agency, it had been a deep, dark secret that he was terrified of dogs. Digger was the exception. He’d inherited the highly trained military dog from a friend who died on a mission under Rex’s command. Rex was still learning how to not fear the dog, and how to take care of it, and how to handle it.