by C. G. Cooper
“Come on, Neil, you’ve gotta have something.”
“Nada. Zilch. Zero. Dunn’s got things locked down.”
Daniel moved into camera view. “Have they touched our funding?”
“Not that I can see.” As usual Neil clacked and clicked away, barely making eye contact with the camera. “But anything’s possible.”
“We’ve been careful,” Daniel said.
“But this is Todd Dunn we’re talking about,” Top chimed in. “He’s a smart bulldog.”
Cal yawned, still shaking off the tossing-and-turning nap he’d taken earlier. Sleep had always come easy. Now it came in fits and starts, inconsistent, and far from satisfying. Being on the run could do that.
“What about Wilcox?” Top asked.
“What about him?”
“I know we've been tiptoeing around this for months, but somebody’s gotta say it, Cal. We’ve gotta give them Wilcox.” He turned to the group. “Back me up on this, guys.”
Gaucho raised his hand. “I know you two shared something, but Top is right. This has gone on long enough. Think about what this is doing to everyone, not just you.”
Cal knew it was a matter of time before this confrontation happened. When the showdown in the Philippines happened, they’d backed him up because they trusted him. Now that they’d had time to think, not to mention being away from the life they’d built, Cal didn’t blame them for wanting him to give up the wily assassin. This was it. Maybe it was time.
Cal was ready to say as much when Daniel spoke up first.
“I don’t know all of Cal’s motives, and I think there are benefits to turning Wilcox in. But I think we need to wait.”
Gaucho threw up a hand, but Daniel cut him off before he could verbalize his objection.
“Hang on. There’s something else at play here. We got complacent, Brandon probably more than the rest of us. He’s thinking about re-election, and I can’t blame him for that. But my gut tells me that one day soon we’re gonna need Wilcox.”
Silence fell upon the group as they let Daniel’s words sink in.
“And I don't know about you guys,” Daniel added, “but I don’t want to be the one to mess with destiny.”
Cal eyed his friend, who was looking away. But Daniel saw him. He knew he did. Daniel was like that—mindfulness in all directions.
Not for the first time, he wished to hell Daniel Briggs would offer just a little bit more about what was on his mind. But he’d learned one thing from his time spent with the man; it was a little thing called faith.
Chapter Fourteen
VOLKOV — MOSCOW — PRESENT DAY
The master was true to his word. Two phones calls. One to snatch the Chinese spy. Another to do his protégé a favor.
“You’re sure this will work?” the bloated master said, having just disconnected the second call.
“It will work,” the Belarusian said, availing himself to a single shot of vodka.
“You know I trust you Alek, but this…”
“It will work. The American will be ours, and you will be the hero who captured the Western assassin.”
The master licked his lips in obvious anticipation, like a hyena waiting for a turn at the kill. A fat hyena, but a hyena, nonetheless.
“Very well. Go with my blessing.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He turned to leave but paused.
“Something else, Alek?”
“Go for a walk, Leonid. I’m worried about you.”
The master got a hearty chuckle out of that, grasping the tire around his waist. “My mother used to feed me when I was a boy. Eat, I love you, she said. Always. Whenever she gave me something. Eat, I love you. Can I help it if I celebrate my good fortune with food? At any rate, I’ll be happy to put myself in the ground before anyone else can.”
The Belarusian wasn’t so sure about that last part. Not if he had anything to say about it.
“Take me to the airport,” the Belarusian said to the driver.
“Which airport, sir?”
“You know which airport.” He didn’t have to raise his voice. Didn’t even have to look up from his phone where he was watching the favor given by the master unfold.
“Very good, sir.”
The driver hadn’t known who he was on the first trip. Now he knew, and it was obvious he didn’t want to screw up the task. The Belarusian knew the man was a budding spy, maybe even an assassin. He himself had been a driver once, ferrying politicos around Moscow with their entourage of mistresses one day, and their wives and kids the next. “What is your name?” the Belarusian asked.
“Yermolai,” the man said proudly, like saying the name meant he’d been selected for duty by the president himself. “I was named after a character from Chekhov.”
“Is that so?”
“That’s what they tell me. I never read Chekhov.”
“Well, thank you, Yermolai.”
“For what, sir?”
“Why, for serving the Motherland, of course.”
The driver scrambled to find the right words. “It is always an honor, sir!”
“Of course it is. Of course.”
“Ever since I was a boy, I wanted to be of service to her. My father died in service.”
“We thank your father’s memory.”
The poor guy would never make it to the front lines. One lesson never left the Belarusian when he was in this man’s position: Keep your gob stopped. This driver had the all-too-eager hyperactivity of the younger generation. Too quick to talk. Too quick to offer an opinion. It was a damn shame. There was a shortage of able bodies as it was.
The Belarusian didn’t say a word for the rest of the ride, past the international airport and out to the private field reserved for the president, his closest lackeys, and the top spies of Mother Russia.
Chapter Fifteen
LENA — RICHWOOD, WEST VIRGINIA — AGE 14
Terry Shamblin snapped a stick against her left calf, and she gritted her teeth through the sting.
“Too much movement,” he said. “Focus.”
I am focusing, she thought to herself. The lessons were coming faster now.
“Grounded. Always grounded. Notice every sliver of grass, every breath, everything.”
“Terry?”
“Yeah?”
“How good was my father?”
“Are you noticing that you’re not noticing?”
“Yes. How good was he?”
Terry grunted, remembering. “The best.”
“Better than you?”
She’d come to know the Marine’s pride, a solemn thing, in his own abilities. The man she’d first met had begun to melt away somewhere along the lines—with the microscopic increments of an icicle. The ice melted, revealing the shape and counters of a softened warrior.
“Yeah, honey. He’s better than me. Now focus.”
She liked how he spoke in the present, like her father was still alive. It was one of many things she appreciated about her surrogate uncle. Minus the cooking skills, of course. She’d taken over the kitchen a week into staying with him.
“Now, stop thinking. Feel it. If I’m looking at this spot through binoculars at a hundred yards, I shouldn’t see a thing.”
She focused without focusing. It was a trick her father had sometimes alluded to, but Terry put into lessons like he’d known she was coming. Patience. Always patience.
“You get a little better and I’m taking us out to dinner,” he said, tapping his stick against her side.
“Promise?”
“Does a Marine ever lie?”
“Only in waiting.”
“That’s right, honey. Don’t ever forget that.”
She wouldn’t.
Chapter Sixteen
STOKES — STERLING, COLORADO — PRESENT DAY
There hadn’t been another word of dissent after Briggs made his declaration. To be honest, Cal hadn’t been entirely convinced until that moment. Ah, the buttressed security of a sniper mon
k at your side.
“Come here, Marine,” Top said, grabbing him into a bone-crushing hug.
“Top, I can’t breathe,” Cal said.
The pressure released. “Can’t have you running off to danger without a proper squeeze.”
“You guys sure you’re good with the plan?”
Top grinned a mouthful of piano keys. “You kidding? Piece of cake, Cal. No problem.”
The four friends shared a quiet moment, possibly the last one for quite some time.
“You better get going before Top starts bawling,” Gaucho said, punching Cal in the arm.
“Okay. Okay. First the bear hug and now the punch. I think you two are gonna enjoy the next part too much,” Cal said.
Another punch and another grin from the mismatched best friends.
“Get the hell out of here,” said Top. “Take care of him, will you, Briggs?”
“Always,” Daniel said, the first to head for the door.
“You think this is the right call?” Cal asked once they were in the car and on the way out of town.
“I do.”
“Do you ever doubt a decision?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because we made the decision together. It’s done.”
“Yeah, about that. I seem to recall you making the decision and me just sort of going along with it and trusting you.”
“You just didn’t verbalize it. But you made it.”
Nothing to say to that. Cal could only hope that the decision was right. This felt like the proverbial dive off a cliff.
Snap on your Speedo, Marine, it’s gonna be a long drop.
It was then he remembered the line from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid: “The fall will probably kill ya.”
Chapter Seventeen
VOLKOV — KUBINKA AIR BASE, RUSSIA — PRESENT DAY
“You understand the plan?” he said to the group of ten in the plane’s cargo hold.
“We understand,” said a man with a face of indeterminate age.
The perfect operative. No bulging muscles or darting eyes. All calm. And plain as a leaf on a tree.
“Good,” said Aleksandr.
There was a slight pause, then, “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“You’re the Belarusian?”
Normally he wouldn’t answer the question. Propriety and all. But this team needed to know who they were dealing with.
“Yes.”
The nonplussed man smiled, the only crack Aleksandr had seen in the man’s facade.
“It’s an honor to be working with you, sir.”
The Belarusian offered a polite nod. It was good to have Russians kissing his ass for once.
Chapter Eighteen
TRENT — WASHINGTON, D.C. — PRESENT DAY
The Secret Service kept a wary eye on the duo, more so than the Marine and former Delta operator were used to.
“You think they know what size boxer briefs I’m wearing?” Gaucho asked out of the side of his mouth.
“Probably,” Top answered. He then nodded politely to the president’s secretary. “Ma’am, my name is Trent. I think the president is expecting us.”
She was new and looked him up and down like a librarian gauging whether to kick a huddle of hoodlums from her domain.
“Yes, the president is waiting.”
“Thank you,” Top said, heading to the familiar door.
“No, Mr. Trent. He’s in the residence,” the secretary said.
“Sorry. Guess I got my wires crossed.”
But he hadn’t. The message had said to meet in the Oval Office. Why the change?
The smell of bacon welcomed the duo as the Secret Service agent escorted them into the president’s private residence. There were new pictures on the wall. Personal choices brought up from whatever vault held the items designated for the president’s aesthetic whims. Top especially liked the gruff face of Ulysses Grant staring across at Abraham Lincoln.
“Mr. President?” the agent called out, like he didn’t know where Zimmer was.
“Just a minute.”
It was close to a minute when the president showed, attired in a button-down shirt, no coat or tie. Top figured it was best for their old friend to make the first move.
“Top, Gaucho—to what do I owe this visit?”
Gone was the cordiality of the past. No hugs. Hell, no handshakes either.
“We’re back, Mr. President.”
“Back?”
It was Gaucho who plopped himself in a chair, going so far as to kick off his shoes. The young agent stared at him askance.
“I like what you’ve done with the place, Mr. President,” said Top. “New pictures?”
The president’s face untwisted in a genuine smile. “Yeah. I had a dream about Grant and Lincoln taking a stroll down the streets of heaven. Thought they might like spending some time together again here on Earth.” He stepped over and offered a hand to Top. “I’ve missed you guys.”
Gaucho rose, stocking footed. The clasped hands turned into the hugs of brothers.
The mood now lightened, and the agent excused, the three men retired to the dining room and a simple spread of bacon and eggs.
“I’m starving,” Gaucho said, not waiting for a cue to start, leaving his friends to catch up while he piled eggs four inches high on his plate.
“I’m afraid it’s not as good as yours, Top.”
Top took a sample of the eggs. “Butter, salt, and pepper, my friend. No need for anything else. Simple is always best.”
“You said you were back. Just the two of you?” Zimmer asked, snatching a piece of bacon and taking a bite.
“Just the two of us.”
The president nodded, chewing slowly. “What about Cal?”
“Still gone,” Top said.
“Why did you come back?”
“We thought it was time.”
“When you say we…”
“Gaucho and myself.”
The president wiped his hands on a napkin and proceeded to fill his plate with food. “Tell me what happened.”
Top gave a shrug. “There’s not much to tell. We think Cal stepped way over the line.”
“Waaaay over the line,” Gaucho said through a mouthful of eggs.
“You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t understand. You both made the choice to leave with him. You’re best friends.”
“I thought we were all friends, Mr. President,” Top said.
Zimmer narrowed his eyes slightly. “Why now? Why come to me first?”
Top shook his head, starting the process of filling his own plate. “You’re the man in charge. Thought it might be easier for you to get Dunn off our backs.”
The president chewed on his answer along with his eggs. “A line was drawn. I understand your loyalty. Trust me, if I wasn’t the president I might’ve done the same thing. But this was about Wilcox, an international criminal, whose actions and plans might destabilize relationships we’ve spent years fostering.”
“No excuses,” Top said. “We see it now and we’re here to help you find him.”
That seemed to surprise the president. He quickly regained his composure. “How do I know Cal didn’t put you up to this?”
“He didn’t.”
Top didn’t like lying to the president. But there were times…
“And just like that, I’m supposed to believe you?”
Top put down his coffee cup and put his wrists together. “Throw us in the clink if you want. We’re at your mercy, Mr. President.”
Gaucho waved his fork in the air. “Speak for yourself, hombre. I’d rather be under house arrest.”
Once again Gaucho’s levity took the sting out of Zimmer’s next words.
“There will have to be assurances.”
“Of course,” Top said.
“Tell me where to sign,” Gaucho added.
Zimmer pushed his plate away. “Your word is fine.”
He stood an
d suddenly looked very presidential. “And now, why don’t you tell me how you plan on finding Matthew Wilcox.”
Chapter Nineteen
LENA — RICHWOOD, WEST VIRGINIA — AGE 15
There was much backslapping and manly posturing between Shamblin and the Marines in camouflage.
“I’ll bet he doesn’t even clean his rifle anymore,” one of them said.
“He cleans it with Endust,” said the other. “Keeps it on the mantle to show off to houseguests. Didn’t I hear you opened a bed and breakfast, Gunny?”
“At ease, you two,” Shamblin said, but he was smiling in a way Lena hadn’t yet seen in the two years she’d been with him. This was his element, more so even than the days they’d spent in fields, forests, and deserts. “I have someone I want you to meet. Lena, come here, honey.”
Lena strolled straight to them, noting how they looked her up and down, not like a prize, but sizing her up.
“Lena, this skinny bastard is Staff Sergeant Gains.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lena,” the Marine said when she shook his hand. He had a kind, gap-toothed smile.
“And this guy who’s way past his prime…”
“Speak for yourself!”
“…is Master Sergeant Charles.”
“How are you, Lena?”
Hard eyes that softened when he talked. Genuine. That was the word that came to mind as she did her own sizing up. No posturing. These men were confident in who they were.
“Now, if either of you get that gurgling, uncomfortable feeling in your gut, feel free to bolt. Got it?”
“Come on, Terry,” Charles said. “How long have we known each other?”
“You really want me to answer that question? It might give the kid a bad view of your prospects.”
“Is it safe to cuss around her?” The question was leveled at Lena.
“Doesn't bother me,” she said.
Charles looked at Shamblin. “Then pluck you, Terry.”
When the cutting up ended and the group retired to a sad-looking structure that was neat and tidy in the inside, the real question came.