Last Train To Nowhere (The Chronicles of Inspector Thomas Sullivan Book 2)

by K. C. Sivils

  He stopped for coffee on his way back to his office, watching the police officers that worked under his supervision going about their jobs. Most of them that is, some were slacking off, just waiting until the end of their shift to leave.

  Determined to change things, O’Brian entered his office and sat down, taking a sip from the hot, bitter liquid. He looked over at his Wall of Fame and stared at the photo of Governor Rankin swearing him in as Chief of Police of Beta Prime.

  “What game are you playing Sullivan,” he said softly. “What game are you playing?”

  ---

  Sarah nudged me, breaking my concentration. I looked up from the tablet with all the scheduled arrivals and departures at Beta Prime’s space station. Josephson had done a good job assembling all the data in such short time.

  “I’m not apologizing for making him fly with us,” I told her for the fifth or sixth time. “Josephson has to get over this fear of his if he wants to make Inspector.”

  She frowned in response and cut her eyes towards of the concourse. I took a quick glance and saw what had gotten her attention. Sarah stood up and hurried off in the direction of the little girl's room. I can't say that I blame her.

  “Inspector Sullivan,” Markeson declared. “Heading back to the scene of the crime?”

  “Yes, need to follow up on some things.”

  “Taking your team with you?”

  I nodded. “You going to Brownstown as well?”

  He laughed in response, running his hand through his hair, making sure every strand was in its place.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to be looking over your shoulder. It’s a routine administrative visit. I do have to make those from time-to-time.”

  Josephson stumbled over, looking pale as a ghost, and saved me from what could have been an awkward situation. He sat down and gave me the evil eye. Markeson laughed at the young detective.

  “Don’t like flying, Sergeant Josephson?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “He doesn’t know,” I spit out, annoyed by the entire situation. “He’s never flown before.”

  “Take some air sickness meds. They help until you get used to it,” Markeson offered as advice.

  “Yes, sir. I have already,” the pup replied, his answer lacking any hint of confidence the meds would indeed be of any help.

  The terminal’s AI announced it was time for the hovercraft to depart for Brownstown. We all stood. Josephson and I gathered the few things we were bringing, and Sarah returned from her trip to the restroom. She didn't speak but did slip behind me, placing me between her and the Captain.

  I could sense the anxiety coming off her in waves. Sarah had an instinctive ability to read most people. Markeson’s presence on our flight was troubling her and probably for reasons I couldn’t understand.

  The fact he was making a routine inspection trip bothered me. With a raid looming in hours, it was odd timing on his part.

  And I don’t believe in coincidences.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Kilgore checked his chronometer. Sullivan’s flight should have landed. He stood up and peered out the window in his office. It was a bleak day. The irony of it made him laugh a humorless laugh.

  The last time he’d been in command of a potentially dangerous action, he’d made a mistake. He hadn’t listened to his sergeant. That mistake had cost nine men their lives and seriously injured the best sergeant he’d ever served with. The blast ended the sergeant’s career in the Space Marines and nearly ended his own.

  Today could go just as badly.

  To make matters worse, the same sergeant would be involved in the raid. Kilgore questioned his motivation to take such a risk. Men could die. His men. The Interplanetary Alliance wasn’t at war. He didn’t have to take the risk.

  The Major wondered if his motivation was to remove the black mark on his career. To remove the shadow that had hung over him for so many years. Or was he doing the right thing for the right reasons? As much as Kilgore believed he had no choice, part of him wondered if his decision was motivated to try somehow to make amends for that horrible day.

  Looking out the window at the dreary landscape, Kilgore replayed the argument with his sergeant again. Orders were orders he'd insisted, and the battalion commander wanted the checkpoint set up by the town square, close to the market.

  Sergeant Thomas Sullivan had argued with him, pointing out suspected insurgents had been spotted in that part of town. Setting up the blockades exactly as ordered would allow a suicide bomber to take out the blockades and kill civilians in the busy market.

  Sullivan wanted to back the checkpoints away from the entrance to the town square, creating a buffer zone between the blockades and the market. It also created a kill zone to take out any insurgents who attacked.

  Still a wet-behind-the-ears Second Lieutenant, Kilgore’s pride and arrogance had gotten the better of him. To prove who was the boss, he’d refused to move the checkpoint. Sullivan had argued the Colonel who’d given the order would agree with the changes. The commander on the scene always had the latitude to adjust orders to conditions in the field.

  Less than twenty-four hours later a suicide bomber drove a hover car into the blockades and detonated it. Nine of Kilgore’s Shore Patrol officers died in the blast or succumbed to their wounds. Eighty-nine civilians died as a result of the bomb. Sullivan lost his left hand, right eye and his career in the Space Marines.

  If it had not been for his parents, Kilgore would have been drummed out of the Space Marines. As it was, there had been many a day where he believed that should have been the outcome. He should be a civilian and Sullivan should still be in the Shore Patrol.

  When assigned to the base on Beta Prime, Kilgore had vowed if he had a chance, he would make amends with Sullivan. He couldn't change what had happened, but maybe he could make up for his mistake. Prove to Sullivan he’d learned the humility a good officer needs. Prove the deaths of the men who died that day had not been completely without meaning.

  Kilgore shook his head, breaking his reverie.

  The match to the comm he’d given Sullivan buzzed. He read the message. His old sergeant was at the tunnel entrance. He'd brought his Sergeant Detective with forensic equipment. Sullivan had also managed to convince the clone, Sarah, to come.

  Running through his roster of Marines and SPs in his mind one final time, Kilgore told himself to stop. The plan was good. He paused and said a quick prayer, asking if any Marine had to die that day, for God to let it be him and not one of his men.

  ---

  Markeson spotted the Colonel as she entered the restaurant they’d met in. She looked stunning, drawing the attention of every male in the establishment and she knew it. The Colonel’s minion, the Sergeant, had not accompanied her.

  A seductive smile on her lips, the red head strolled over to meet Markeson, exaggerating the roll of her hips as she moved for his benefit. He stood up and took her hand, kissing it before giving her a modest hug.

  “Captain Markeson, such a warm welcome,” she purred, stroking his cheek with the back of her left hand.

  The detective seated her opposite his own seat and sat down. The pair of predators eyed each other, sizing the other up for the struggle each knew was about to begin.

  “I wish we could meet under more pleasant conditions,” Markeson said politely.

  “Oh, but I think it’s wonderful you came to visit me and had the foresight to make reservations at the very establishment we first met in.” She smiled at him seductively, looking for a weakness to exploit. “It’s romantic, don’t you think.”

  He motioned for the waiter who approached with a bottle of wine. Markeson went through the motions of approving the wine. The waiter filled their glasses, placed the wine in the chiller and left.

  Markeson raised his glass as did the Colonel. “To success,” he said with a smile.

  “To success.”

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered for us.”


  “Of course I don’t mind. This wine is excellent!”

  “It should be. It’s from some place on Earth called France, Bordeaux, I think. It costs enough.”

  “Well, you certainly have good taste, Captain. Now, please tell me, what can I do for you today? Will it be business, pleasure or both?”

  The smile vanished from Markeson’s face as he sat down his wine glass.

  “All business today, my good Colonel. I need the departure times, destinations, everything. There’s a lot of risk for me in this little arrangement of ours. I want to finalize everything as soon as possible.”

  "My, aren't you in a hurry," she replied, forcing a smile to remain on her face.

  “You pay me for information. Not just the shipping arrangements. There have been developments you don’t know about.”

  The smile vanished from her face.

  “Explain.”

  “When we first met, you brought up one of my Inspectors.”

  “Inspector Sullivan.”

  “He killed a clone in Capital City.”

  She was unable to keep the surprise from her face. Markeson was a better card player. His stone faced expression revealed nothing.

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Well believe it.” Markeson’s pulse quickened. He’d been right. Her interest in the death of the SP and her feigned disinterest in the dead clone hit man connected the dots for him. The long persistent rumors of a secret clone program at the base were true.

  “How many clones are you selling?”

  “Who said I’m selling any clones Captain?”

  “Let’s not kid ourselves Colonel. You seem to forget, I’m a detective. Information is like money. Good cops save information for a rainy day just like good investors save money.”

  Irritation caused the red head’s porcelain cheeks to flush red through her delicately applied rouge.

  “The consulting fee just tripled.”

  “Tripled! How dare you!”

  “Easy, I can arrest you right here,” he whispered. “Now, don’t make a scene because you have real problems. You need my help if you want to get off this planet.”

  The Colonel’s face twisted, turning her beautiful features into a hideous, rage filled mask. “What makes you think I need your help?”

  “Sullivan is here, in Brownstown with his team. Just what do you think he is looking for?”

  She smiled, her face returning to its regular appearance. “Why should I worry?”

  "Because he's good, very good. Sullivan's got the scent, and he won't let go until he figures this out. The closer Sullivan gets, the quicker he puts it all together. You don't have much time."

  The Colonel exhaled in frustration. She sat in silence and thought. She needed time, something it would appear she didn’t have much of at the moment. The waiter arrived with their food, giving her time she needed to alter her plans. She was too close to success; to getting her revenge to let a mere civilian Inspector and a corrupt Chief of Detectives stand in her way.

  ---

  Things were going smoothly. The Sergeant looked about his quarters. It would be the last time he visited them. All of his possessions had been packed and shipped ahead to Capital City. One final inspection allowed him to feel confident he’d left behind nothing capable of incriminating him or revealing any information of value to a competent investigator.

  If all went as planned, the troublesome Markeson would be dead soon. The clones would be en route as planned and it would be time. Time to settle things between him and the woman he loved.

  She would accept his declaration of love and vow her faithfulness to him, and him alone or her life would come to an end. It would hurt, but he would heal. A broken heart was simply another wound for the veteran soldier.

  He took one final look in the mirror, brushing off an imaginary speck of lint. The movement made him chuckle. Markeson had nothing on him when it came to vanity about one’s appearance.

  Securing the door, he walked down the corridor in his measured military stride. If he couldn’t have her, nobody would. The cause was more important than a mere woman, even if it was the love of his life.

  ---

  Wiping his mouth with the linen napkin, Markeson decided to ask a few seemingly irrelevant questions. The answers of which might give him the edge in the dangerous game the two were playing. Watching the red head eat had given him no additional clues about the game she was playing.

  “Why?”

  “Excuse me,” the Colonel answered, looking up from the slice of triple chocolate cake Markeson had ordered for their dessert.

  “Why are you doing this? I checked this morning. You’re still in the military. Your title, Colonel, is your actual rank. You’re going to desert when you get the merchandise off Beta Prime. Nobody throws away a career like that just for money.”

  The seductive smile made its appearance on command, but the raw hatred in her eyes answered his question. It was one of the oldest motives in the history of humanity.

  “You seem to be full of surprises this evening Captain Markeson. It would appear I underestimated your skill as a detective.”

  He pressed his advantage. "Answer the question, or I'll arrest you."

  She laughed, a deep full laugh that drew the attention of diners near their table. “You would be placing yourself in a great deal of danger.”

  “Hardly. My tracks are completely covered. I have a dead SP I can pin on you. The investigation, by my star Inspector no less, will tie all kinds of things, illegal things, to that one dead body. My fingerprints won’t be on a single thing. It will be your word against mine, and might I add, the word and reputation of Inspector Sullivan.”

  Seeing no way around the issue, the Colonel decided to answer Markeson’s question. It hardly mattered. He would be dead soon enough.

  “I was unjustly passed over for promotion. The General in command of the base, I’m sure you’ve researched the fair Brigadier Janice Savier, slept her way to the promotion that was mine.”

  His poker face in place, Markeson nudged her one more time.

  “So is it jealousy or revenge?”

  The Colonel looked away, the muscles in her face straining as she fought to control the emotions raging inside.

  "A bit of both I would suppose. But there's more." Her emotions tucked away again, she looked at Markeson and smiled, continuing in her bedroom voice, "More than that, I cannot tell you. You, of course, are aware I’m in Military Intelligence. There are limits.”

  “Fair enough,” he answered, smiling his most charming smile. “I have one more question I insist you answer.”

  “Please, ask and get this inquisition over with Captain.”

  “Is there a suitable hotel nearby where we could get a room?”

  ---

  He would be glad to get off Beta Prime. The Captain watched the snow and ice covered buildings flash past as the convoy traveled slowly toward the spaceport’s ground terminal.

  The documents and details had arrived electronically earlier in the day. It had taken less than an hour for his disciplined men to pack up their gear, clean the warehouse until it was ready for a Drill Instructor’s inspection and supervise the civilian trucker’s loading of the containers.

  Each truck had a mercenary riding in the cab, all with credentials as hired security for the cargo. The Captain's remaining men traveled in a hired transport, their weapons, and equipment close at hand.

  Losing a man on a job was never good. Buck had only been with them for two contracts, but his loss had been preventable. Their employer had a sense of the dramatic that was unnecessary. A good leader controlled what was controllable and planned proactively for every foreseeable disaster and built in appropriate responses. All plans fall apart upon contact with the enemy. The trick was to know where the enemy was.

  Buck had died because the employer had not done an adequate job of recon. Insisting on using the plan as devised had been foolish. The Captain blamed hims
elf for not walking away since he had not been allowed to plan the raid.

  It was the first contract with this employer and eager to make a good impression, he'd made a military decision based on business reasons. Something he disliked doing. It got men killed. They might be mercenaries, but they were still his men.

  Once again, the limited amount of information concerned him. With the cargo in transit, it was not inconceivable he and his men were heading right into an ambush.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Kilgore marched into General Savier’s office with four SP’s in formation behind him. He ignored the protests of the Staff Sergeant as he brushed past the reception desk and burst unannounced into the General’s office.

  “Excuse me,” an irate Savier, blurted out, startled by Kilgore’s sudden entrance.

  “General Savier, I’m afraid matters of security are going to require I ask you not to use any electronic devices until otherwise notified. Nor are you to access any databases, computer files or communication devices of any kind.”

  “Have you lost your mind, Major Kilgore?”

  “No, General I have not,” Kilgore replied tersely. “I will be leaving four of my Shore Patrol officers to make sure you comply with my instructions and that you do not leave your office.”

  Savier stood up and leaned over, placing her hands on the desk as she did so. “A good officer’s career can withstand one black mark on his record. Some say the best commanders all have a black mark on their record. But no officer, and I mean no officer, no matter how well connected, can survive two black marks. Do I make myself clear, Major?”

  Kilgore looked the brunette square in her hazel eyes, noting the resolve behind the threat.

  “General, threats only work if the party being threatened cares.”

  Kilgore turned and looked at the Sergeant he’d brought with him.

  “If General Savier fails to comply with any of my directives, place her under arrest and detain her. If the General resists, use whatever means is necessary to subdue her.”