Steel Assassin

by Geoffrey Saign

  Foley extended a hand. “Good to see you, Alex.”

  Keeping his hands to himself, he nodded.

  Retracting his hand, Foley’s eyes narrowed. “Alex Sight, I’d like you to meet Special Agent Megan Detalio. She’s an information analyst. One of the best.”

  In her mid-thirties, she wore an expensive blue suit and white blouse. An olive complexion added to the striking, unconventional look of her face. A mix of Caucasian and maybe Pacific Islander, framed by long, dark, curly hair. What held Alex’s attention were her dark eyes. Smoldering emotion.

  Something threatening surged at him from her, details that he couldn’t quite grasp. It felt oddly out of place with the beautiful woman who sat in front of him. Try as he might, it was an elusive thing, evaporating before he understood it.

  “I’m pleased to meet you.” Her voice was slightly husky, her tone genuine and easy to read. She stood, five inches under his six-foot height, and extended a hand.

  Ignoring her, Alex turned back to Foley. He was aware of the woman frowning. “Get on with it.”

  Foley cleared his throat. “Megan, could you please wait inside the house?”

  “Of course.” She looked annoyed, grabbed her sunglasses from the table, and left.

  As she walked away, Alex noted her athletic frame made a distinct V to her waist. Loose fitting slacks tightened around her ankles, above low-heeled shoes. She moved like an athlete, with good balance and a smooth stride.

  He skewered Foley with his gaze. “The case. Show me.”

  Foley put on his sunglasses. Rising fluidly, he strode around the pool, taking several mints from a small tin. He didn’t offer Alex any.

  Foley gestured at the stone wall surrounding the estate. “The killers came over at noon. Maybe from Avenida Primavera. They knew the layout...”

  As Foley talked, Alex’s eyes were drawn to the wall, and settled on one stone, round and coarse. Anger. It leapt at him, clamping on his throat like a vise. He grasped at the word, trying to hang onto it. The emotion changed subtly, expanded, and he felt the rage as it swept into his chest like a hot brand. Revenge. That emotion slowly withered away as he listened to the deputy director.

  Foley handed over a sheet of paper. “Here’s the statement this Threshold terrorist group put on the Internet. A blogger informed us late last night of the possibility of foul play with the Wheelers. I happened to be in Los Angeles. Thanks for taking a late flight.”

  Alex glanced over the words, looking for anything that might trigger a reaction. Some phrases he absorbed, while others slid out of his perception like water through open fingers. Denton and Patty Wheeler...selling toxic agricultural chemicals…toxic deaths and sickness... victims avenged…no compromise until guilty… brought to justice.

  Nothing jumped out at him so he handed it back to Foley. They strode back to the table.

  Foley continued talking. “The killers left footprints made by climbing shoes and wore black Lycra with hoods and red-tinted goggles. Wheeler’s teenage daughter said they talked to each other using Greek names from the Trojan War. Menelaus, Patroclus, Achilles, and Odysseus. She had a course in Greek history so the names resonated.

  “She said Achilles dragged one of the dead dogs into the pool, but Odysseus stopped him from throwing the second one in. Achilles made some sarcastic remark. Then Odysseus gave the sentencing speech, accusing the Wheelers of poisoning the planet. They sedated and removed the daughter so she didn’t have to watch her parents die. One guard and the maid were tranquilized too.”

  Foley grimaced as he sat down again. “So we have one slightly compassionate killer and at least one psycho who enjoys it. And they don’t like each other. The daughter described Odysseus and Achilles as slender and tall, Menelaus big and strong, Patroclus short and stocky.”

  Sitting at the table, Alex closed his eyes, not focusing on anything, letting the fugue have its way with him. He heard Foley’s words in snatches and listened for something beyond them.

  “Two guards killed…Heckler & Koch MP5 machine gun…Glock…”

  Billings. The word hung in his consciousness and had deep anguish attached to it. Before he could explore it further, the image of a dark night filled his mind…bullets spraying everywhere, men and women toppling over, shouts… Desperately he grasped at that vision, trying to return to it, wanting more of the small taste he had.

  However his senses abruptly closed down, shrinking back to the mundane as he dropped out of his state. He made a feeble effort to cling to the fading vision, but it dissipated like rising smoke.

  Dismayed, he opened his eyes. Joseph Foley sat in front of him, seeming a bit more solid and perturbed than he had been aware of earlier. Waves of heat rose from the surrounding cement.

  The atrocity he had witnessed, a small-scale massacre, curled his hands on the arms of the chair. He always witnessed death or its possibility in his imagery, but never of this magnitude. And never precisely where it would occur. Not knowing the details always left him feeling anxious. The word Billings wasn’t attached to the site of the massacre, but made him curious.

  Relaxing his shoulders, he sagged into his chair, his throat parched. Sweat ran beneath his casual short-sleeved pullover and his tennis shoes suffocated his feet. Lifting the glass of lemonade in front of him, he drained half of it, and then looked at the lawn. “I bet that takes a lot of water in a heat wave like this.”

  “I know you like print for your skill set.” Taking a pencil from his shirt pocket, Foley set its eraser against the manila folder on the table. “Threshold named several hundred company executives and owners that they’re holding personally responsible for national and international environmental crimes. Global warming, toxic chemicals killing people and wildlife, GMO pesticides and herbicides, and plastic pollution. They also faxed details of Wheeler’s company operations to the press. Obviously to sway public opinion. We’ve had quite a few panicked calls from the named CEOs.”

  “Why did Wheeler have armed guards?”

  Foley shrugged. “He was a billionaire living in Del Mar with the Pacific Ocean for a backyard view. I guess he thought it came with the territory.”

  “Cause of death?”

  Foley grimaced. “Respiratory failure. The Wheelers were forced to swallow a cup of glyphosate and clothianidin. Glyphosate is a common herbicide used worldwide, clothianidin is a neonicotinoid pesticide. Both are used on genetically engineered crops. The terrorists blame clothianidin and glyphosate for killing pollinators and insect populations worldwide. Glyphosate is linked to cancer.”

  “Wheeler’s company manufactured them?” asked Alex.

  “Yes. In Asia.” Foley lifted a few fingers. “Glyphosate is available at lawn and garden stores. Roundup, a common brand from Monsanto, relies on glyphosate. Farmers also use it and clothianidin. We’ll talk to Wheeler employees, see if anyone stands out.”

  “They went to some effort to spare the guard, maid, and daughter.” Alex didn’t ask how the daughter was doing. She would have to live with this hell for the rest of her life.

  Foley’s eyebrows arched. “Some twisted idea of killing only those they claim are guilty. The two guards who resisted and the dogs were expendable. They tasered the live-in maid, then sedated her. The sedative used on her, the guard, and the daughter was a mix of ketamine and xylazine. Both are used illegally for recreation, and used as sedatives by veterinarians, among others. Someone had to know what they were doing to mix the two.”

  “A veterinarian.” Intuitively that fit for him.

  “Or someone who works with big animals.” Foley tapped his pencil’s eraser once against the folder. “We pulled together a list of large animal vets supplied with xylazine, alphabetical by states and last names. We’ll interview many of them in the coming days.”

  “How about an environmental extremist file?”

  “We’re working on it.”
Foley pushed the folder across the table. “There’s also a dossier on Wheeler’s company. Phone calls for the last year, acquaintances, friends, and business contacts. We’ve already moved on a lot of it, but it seems Wheeler was a random target. He just happened to be in the wrong business. In the folder there’s a Bureau credit card, FBI photo ID, and the number to my office manager in Washington. She’ll be able to locate me immediately.”

  Alex opened the folder and quickly scanned the list of company executives and owners, letting his eyes wander down pages. Nothing. He moved through the Wheeler company information just as fast. Nothing. Lastly he scanned the veterinarians listed by state, pausing on California. San Diego. It felt intuitive too, and obvious. He stared at the names listed beneath it. Dr. Frank Crary stood out, but no images came.

  He looked up at Foley. “I want to see phone records on veterinarians around San Diego, especially Dr. Frank Crary.”

  Foley raised an eyebrow. “Good. We’ll get warrants.”

  Alex sat back. “Why kill Wheeler’s wife?”

  “She ran the business with him so they considered her equally responsible.” Leaning on the table, hands clasped, Foley’s steady voice matched the firmness of his expression. “Megan Detalio is your partner.”

  Alex clenched his jaw. He should have guessed. He recalled sensing something threatening about her. The idea of a partner brought a sour taste to his mouth and memories of Jenny flooded him. Recovering, he tried to sound nonchalant. “What’s her history?”

  “Phenomenal information analyst. Out of the San Diego office. She volunteered and convinced me of her assets.”

  Alex kept his voice calm. “Great. Tell her to review the information you have. I’ll call her daily to see what she’s put together.”

  “She’ll be with you in the field. It’s nonnegotiable.”

  Alex knew Foley wouldn’t budge, so he said, “Look for a motive of revenge.”

  Foley frowned. “Don’t you think that’s obvious?”

  He shook his head. “A personal motive. Beyond the environmental concerns, and not necessarily directed at Wheeler. Has Billings, Montana, come up in your investigation?”

  Foley shook his head. “Why?”

  “Keep it in mind.” Alex paused. “I saw a massacre, but it wasn’t there. They’re connected somehow though.”

  “A massacre?” Foley pursed his lips.

  Alex turned in the direction of heavy footsteps.

  A burly, nearly bald man approached them from the house. A tan suit stretched over his wide shoulders and thick arms. He had a dour look and held an unlit wooden pipe. The man stopped at their table, chewing gum and squinting against the sun.

  Alex looked at Foley expectantly.

  “Alex, this is Bill Gallagher. He directs the FBI’s counterterrorism division and will be your contact if I’m busy or detained elsewhere.”

  Noting the man’s surly frown, Alex stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Gallagher grunted and took his hand in a quick shake. “Likewise.”

  “I wanted Gallagher to meet you in person.” Foley fidgeted in his chair. “You need to work together as the case develops.”

  “I look forward to it.” Alex didn’t see any friendliness in the man’s eyes. “I’m sure we’ll be a great help to each other.”

  “It should prove interesting.” Gallagher nodded, wheeled, and walked back into the house with heavy steps.

  Alex shook his head. “Did his dog just die?”

  “It seems to be contagious, doesn’t it?”

  Alex waved a hand. “Sorry. Earlier…that wasn’t personal. Hand contact would have interfered—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Foley straightened. “Gallagher’s the best intelligence analyst we have. He doesn’t appreciate bringing in an outsider. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “Of course. No one likes to have a partner forced on them.”

  “I brought you in because of your ability to deliver fast results.” Foley tapped his pencil’s eraser rhythmically against the table. “But I want everyone on this case communicative with each other. Understood?”

  Foley’s words carried a bite and it annoyed him. “Perfectly.”

  “You need to toe the line too, Alex. Nothing except standard procedure unless you check with me first.”

  “Fine.” He had to work to not react, reminding himself that Foley, besides having a need to spell everything out, always had to tap his stupid pencil like a drumbeat everyone was supposed to answer to. Not much had changed in the last year.

  Foley leaned back. “I want daily updates.”

  Alex picked up the folder as he rose. He waved at the painted numeral five on the patio. “It’s a countdown. The next murder will be tonight and will have a four, the next murder three, two, one.”

  “You’re certain of this?” Foley gaped at him. “Then what?”

  Alex grimaced. “Maybe they disappear or go out in a big battle.”

  Foley rose stiffly. “And you’re sure the next one is tonight?”

  “I’m guessing after sunset. They did this first one in daylight, but now they’ll need to be more careful.” He added, “A lot of people are going to die before this is over, Joseph.”

  Foley’s eyes widened. “Is that written in stone?”

  “I’d bet on it.” He strode past the pool, his own words filling him with revulsion. Drained, he needed rest, and his thoughts churned over Megan Detalio.

  Walking through the cooler house, he noticed Gallagher talking to several agents. The man avoided his eyes as he went by. Alex wondered how Foley expected him to have good communication with someone who didn’t even want him on the case.

  Worse than that, the images he had experienced reverberated deep inside. He abruptly realized that he didn’t want to do this kind of work anymore. For the first time ever, he wanted off a case. Wanted to walk out of this mansion and forget about it. His curse was that it was too late for that. His conscience wouldn’t let him.

  CHAPTER 3

  Jenny yelled for his help from the room, her voice frantic. He ran up the wooden stairs of the old house, knowing he wouldn’t be in time, gripping the handrail with one hand, his gun in the other. There were too many steps and he was too far from the room...

  Alex woke up, the nightmare fading but leaving him edgy. He leaned back in his seat. Soft music played. Pink singing Just Give Me a Reason. Sitting stiffly, Megan was driving his rental Corolla, sleek black sunglasses hiding her eyes. She turned down the music on her iPod.

  After telling her what he had sensed at the Wheeler estate, he had crashed. Bringing his seat vertical, he glimpsed the ocean through the trees out his open car window. That surprised him. His sunglasses gave the water a greenish tint. A red-tailed hawk circled in the sky.

  The AC was off and hot air roasted his skin. His watch read eleven a.m. The promise of another murder tonight sent his thoughts racing. He had to work to calm himself.

  His eyes widened as a black and white CHP Charger pulled up alongside them in the opposing traffic lane, lights flashing. No siren.

  Megan slowed down and moved their car over to the right side of the lane, biting her lip. The shoulder on their side of the road was non-existent, with trees and shrubs growing right up to the edge of the pavement.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Not answering, she stared at the police car keeping pace alongside them as she braked to a stop. The police car stopped beside them, the passenger window open, two male officers in front.

  The passenger police officer, wearing sunglasses and tight-lipped, flashed a palm down at her.

  For one instant the driver of the police car leaned forward and scowled.

  Alex wondered what Megan had done to make the officer angry—his expression didn’t fit a speeding ticket. Maybe the guy was h
aving a bad day.

  The CHP quickly accelerated and disappeared around the next bend.

  Megan took a deep breath and sagged into her seat. “I was going a little fast. They probably ran the plates and found your name on the rental agreement. And I’m not you.”

  He glanced at her. “They must have another call. Lucky you.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  Turning off the music, she pulled into the lane and continued driving. “Torrey Pines Park Road. The county highway had road construction. We’ll pick it up halfway through.”

  He clutched the armrest as she took the next corner. Twisted pine and chaparral covered the dry countryside. Dust filled the air. He could taste it. Beyond the west shoulder, the rugged landscape dropped three-hundred-feet. In his side mirror he watched a Subaru Outback with tinted glass roar up fast behind them.

  The speed limit was thirty, but Megan pushed the sedan to thirty-five to accommodate the following car. Double solid yellow lines prohibited passing on the winding road and there wasn’t a shoulder she could use to let the car pass.

  The Subaru hugged their bumper for a few moments, and then dropped back twenty feet.

  Alex glanced at Megan, surprised she was speeding again after just being stopped. “Thanks for driving. I needed a rest. Want a break?”

  “I’m good.” Wind played with strands of her hair while she fingered a silver dolphin at the end of a thin necklace.

  He wiped sweat off his brow. “Can we turn on the AC? We’re in the middle of a heat wave.”

  “Sure.” She powered up the windows and turned it on.

  He opened the glove compartment, which was half-filled with mini dark chocolate bars. “Want one?” She shook her head, and he unwrapped one and started eating.

  “I like milk chocolate.” She smiled. “One of my few vices.”

  He winked at her. “Better than drugs and alcohol.”

  “It goes to my butt.”

  “Yikes.”