Before Whitner, Murray had even gone as far as to think that poking around in Black Water affairs was enough to go offline for a while.
Taken together, Ridge couldn’t shake the notion that whoever this organization was, they were a lot higher in the pecking order than the usual military contractor, with some serious clout, and an extreme deference to anything resembling a conscience.
And considering some of the similar organizations he had encountered, that was not a good thing, to say the least.
Also to be considered was the presence of General Arnold Ames, a man whose rank and experience gave the unit at least some semblance of legitimacy, a fact that made whatever he might need to do that much more difficult.
Lost in those thoughts, trying to determine who else he might be able to shake out of bed, to have poke around for more information, Ridge only vaguely became aware of the phone beginning to vibrate on the desk. So used to ignoring it, or the sound of phones ringing, or fax machines kicking to life, or the ping of emails hitting his inbox, the noise didn’t manage to penetrate his psyche at first.
Not until what he guessed to be more than a half-dozen tones passed did it manage to pull his attention toward the desk, his focus landing on the small silver object rotating a few inches with each buzz.
The first thought that passed through Ridge’s mind was that Whitner had been cut off, that the man was returning his call, as he sprung across the room and grabbed the phone up. Flipping it open, the thought was pushed from his mind as he saw an extraordinarily lengthy list of digits staring back at him, the number much too long to be from a standard U.S. line.
Feeling his brow come together, Ridge accepted the call.
“Jackson Ridge.”
The first response through the line was a loud burst of static, the noise followed by what sounded like a long line of traffic in the background, large machines with enormous diesel engines and oversized tires.
“Yeah, this the senator?” a man almost yelled, his pitch raised to be heard over the ruckus nearby.
Wincing, Ridge pulled the phone back a few inches and stared at the receiver in his hand before bringing it back to his face.
“Yes, this is Senator Jackson Ridge. Who is this?”
For a moment, there was no response, the noise in the background somehow growing even louder, before most of the residual sound fell away, the quiet almost jarring.
“Sorry about that,” the man said. “I placed the call thinking we were all set over here, then got pulled back out for a second.”
Who he was referring to or where they had gotten pulled out to, Ridge could only guess at, hoping that things started becoming clearer fast.
“That’s no problem,” Ridge said.
“Apologies for the time, too,” the man said, “Sebastian gave me the number, said you’d be awake.”
Sebastian.
At the mention of Murray, the previous call with Whitner fled from mind, Ridge recalling the final thing Murray had said, that help might be coming in from the other side of the world.
When he’d first said it, Ridge hadn’t pretended to have any idea what he was referring to, things just now beginning to make sense.
“Yeah, for sure,” Ridge said. “This being my last night in office, needed to wrap some stuff up before handing in my keys.”
“And let me tell you,” the man replied, “those of us out here on the front line appreciate it. Nice to know the guys calling the shots back home are working just as hard as we are.”
A flush of blood traveled to Ridge’s face at the unexpected compliment, his temperature rising a few degrees.
“You’re quite welcome,” Ridge said, feeling as if he were a schoolchild squirming before his teacher, anxious to push on past. “I’m sorry, who did you say I’m speaking with again?”
“Oh!” the man said, a bit of dawning in his tone. “That’s my bad, I hadn’t actually gotten there yet. Master Sergeant Aaron Bills, 103rd Infantry by way of Erie, Pennsylvania.”
Having been to Erie on two separate occasions, Ridge pushed aside his first inclination to offer condolences, instead seizing on the first half of the introduction.
“Pleasure to meet with you, Master Sergeant. Thanks for getting back to me.”
“Not a problem, sir. Any friend of Bassy’s is a friend of mine.”
One corner of Ridge’s mouth curled up at the mention of Sebastian being called Bassy, the moment passing just as fast, his mustache falling back into place.
“Well, I do appreciate it,” he said. “Did he happen to tell you what this was about?”
Another sharp crack of what sounded like metal hitting a concrete floor exploded across the line, Ridge again wincing as he jerked the phone back a few inches from his face, holding it there until he heard Bills's voice reappear.
“Sorry about that,” Bills said, annoyance plain in his tone. “FNG, again.”
One corner of Ridge’s mouth drew upward, it being the first time he had heard the unofficial acronym in years, glad to know there was at least some commonality between his time in the service and the present day.
“You’ll get that,” Ridge said.
“Every time,” Bills said, the irritation already pulling back into resignation. “And to answer your question, sort of. Said it had to do with the convoy attack that occurred last April?”
“That it did,” Ridge said. “I was wondering what you might be able to tell me about it.”
A small sound escaped over the line, as if Bills was beginning to speak before stopping short. For a moment, there was nothing but quiet between them before a door could be heard closing, wood butting up flush against a metal frame.
“Sir, may I ask a question?”
There was no need for the man to continue calling him sir, though Ridge knew better than to even bother saying as much, the habit so ingrained in people like Bills it would be worth more hassle to both men that it was even worth.
“By all means,” Ridge replied.
“Is this conversation off-the-record? As in, my name will never be mentioned?”
His eyes tightening slightly, Ridge fixed his gaze on the far wall, his attention landing on a painting of the Big Horns at dusk, his mind barely even loading what it was seeing.
“Master Sergeant, I can promise you that this conversation never even took place.”
Again there was a slight pause, the man clearly debating how to proceed, before he said, “Would you like to hear what I know? What I suspect? Or what speculation around the base thinks?”
The same tremor that had visited several times to the pit of Ridge’s stomach popped up again, this one clutching him tighter than the others before combined.
“Yes.”
A quick snort was the first response, followed by, “Okay, this is what I know for a fact. On the night of April 14th, a convoy headed from Kabul to Bagram was ambushed. It happened in the wee hours of the morning, right out in the open, nowhere near any of the traditional choke points.”
All of this information Ridge had heard from Al Bumppo, though he nodded to himself, listening keenly. “Okay.”
“I also know that of the ten trucks involved, only three were rendered unable to go any further, left behind while the other seven ventured on.”
The first part Ridge knew, though never had he given much thought to the fate of the remaining trucks.
“They were just left sitting in the middle of the road?” he asked.
A long sigh could be heard, Ridge almost able to envision the man shaking his head on the other end of the call.
“Yeah, but it wasn’t like that. They were still taking heat, and those three were all suffering from engine fires. Whoever hit them knew exactly what they were doing.”
“Hmm,” Ridge said. “And the other trucks were loaded with supplies and didn’t want to risk the same fate.”
“Even worse,” Bills said, “most of them carried personnel.”
Out of pure reflex, Ridge shot a lo
w whistle between his teeth, the sound drawn out several seconds in length.
“And the three trucks?” he asked, already knowing the answer but wanting confirmation.
“Weapons,” Bills said. “Which leads me to what I suspect.”
Blinking several times in succession, Ridge walked quickly around his desk, flopping down in his chair. Grabbing up the legal pad, he turned to a new page, holding the pen inches above it, ready to begin transcribing.
“Go ahead.”
“All three trucks that were hit were carrying weapons,” Bills said. “And when I say weapons, I mean everything from small arms to heavy artillery.”
“Enough to inflict some serious damage,” Ridge added.
“Enough to start your own civil war,” Bills said. “Basically, a do-it-yourself armory starter kit.”
Unable to stop his head as it shook a few inches to either side, Ridge said, “Damn.”
“A fact that I’m pretty sure somebody knew,” Bills added. “I mean, how else would they just so happen to pick out the second, fourth, and eighth trucks in a line?”
Scribbling down the numbers, Ridge felt his eyebrows rise. “You’re kidding me.”
“Nope,” Bills said. “And we switch up the order in the convoy every trip. No way anybody gets that lucky on their own, and if they do...”
“I want their picks for the Super Bowl next month,” Ridge finished.
“Exactly.”
Leaning forward, his elbows resting on the edge of the desk, Ridge circled back through everything he’d just been told, almost picturing the events of April 14th in his mind, seeing the burning trio of trucks positioned out in the open, watching seven sets of red brake lights grow smaller in the distance.
“So you suspect that somebody knew what was going down, set this thing up,” Ridge said, prompting Bills for the third portion of his response, the part about base speculation.
“I do,” Bills said, “especially considering that was the third time it had happened in less than a month.”
The pen in Ridge’s hand slid from his fingers, bouncing against the wooden desktop as his mouth dropped open. The bottom fell out of his stomach and his mouth went dry as twice he attempted to speak, neither time being able to find his voice.
“The third time?”
“In less than a month,” Bills repeated.
“And the contents?” Ridge asked.
“They varied,” Bills said, “but each time at least fifty percent of what was taken was weaponry.”
Hearing the words, Ridge’s eyes slid closed, the bright office light fading from view. Handfuls of responses came to mind, though only a single one kept resurfacing, pushing all others to the side, refusing to be ignored.
Not once had Bills made mention of it yet, but Ridge couldn’t help but ask the question, the two previous phone calls still fresh in his mind.
“And tell me, Master Sergeant, does the name Black Water mean anything to you?”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Jackson Ridge felt good. Damn good.
After fourteen hours of digging, he was finally starting to get somewhere. What had started as a scavenger hunt to answer a single question from a constituent, to give a grieving mother some relief, to assuage his own aching ego, had turned into far, far more than that.
Had he known at the beginning that it would have gone as far as it had, there was no telling whether or not he would have continued on the path, though that was well past the point now.
For the first time all night, a truly muddled situation was finally starting to take shape.
Positioned on the far side of the office, his phone still in hand, Ridge found himself staring at the closed curtains before him. His thoughts a hundred other places, his eyes failed to even register the scene before him, his mind replaying the conversation with the Master Sergeant, a handful of others before it.
The sum total of them added up to a great many things – none clearer than the fact that he had expended far more favors than he ever had reason to believe he was owed.
On the morrow he would begin finding those that carried a marker, offering to do whatever he could to square the debt, knowing that the further removed from office he became, the less useful he would be to anybody. Despite that, it was also clear that there were certain things he would never be able to atone for, beginning with the fact that Murray was now on the run, and going on to a host of others.
For the time being though, he had more pressing matters to tend to. The final narrative of Josh Tarby was at last beginning to take shape, he just had a few more things he needed before it all made sense.
From there, decisions about what to do with whatever he found would be made by someone else, people that could expend their own resources ferreting out the ills of Black Water.
All he was concerned with was ensuring Clara Tarby woke up to her first bit of good news in ages.
That singular point, that touchstone to the entire ordeal they had been through, brought things full circle, and the next step becoming obvious in Ridge’s mind. Blinking himself back awake, he looked down to the phone still clutched in his hand, the stuffed fowl displayed a few feet before him.
Rotating on the ball of his foot, he went straight back across the office and out into the foyer, his strides elongated, moving fast. He had no idea what time it now was, his body clock impervious to the lack of sleep, endorphins and adrenaline having him feeling the best he had in ages.
“Susie,” he called. “Susie!”
Covering the expanse between the two offices in just a few steps, Ridge went for the opposite doorway, pulling up abruptly. Extending both hands and pressing them into the frame one either side, he stopped his forward momentum, his shoulders straining just slightly with exertion before bringing him to a stop.
Confusion was the first sensation to creep through his body, starting on his face and moving south quickly.
In order, it was followed by the bottom dropping out of his stomach, fear flooding through in a quick wave, getting to every nerve ending and muscle fiber in his body.
Last to show was realization, more dampness coating Ridge’s skin as he stared at what was before him, his jaw sagging open.
During the conversation with the Master Sergeant, he had been completely consumed. The door to his office had been open, he was aware that Beckwith was around, but his entire focus was on the discussion at hand, his body pacing out of muscle memory alone. If pressed, he would be unable to recall a single visual from the course of the conversation, his mind elsewhere, his senses reliving the tale that he was being told.
Stranded in such a state, he must have failed to hear the front door open, missing the enormous man that was now seated in the bullpen before him.
Resting on the front edge of the free desk in the corner, the man stood with one boot planted on the ground, the other raised, swinging free a few inches above the carpet. Dressed in cargo pants and a black windbreaker, he seemed to be the walking poster child for a contractor advertisement, the look completed by the silenced weapon balanced across his thigh.
Thinning hair sat high atop his head, framing a sloping face that was smirking back at the senator.
“Who are you?” Ridge asked, his throat feeling numb, his voice sounding distorted as it passed into the air.
The question only seemed to heighten the sneer on the man’s face, his foot swinging to and fro the only movement of any kind.
“How did you get in here?” Ridge pressed, wondering how anybody that looked the way he did could have possibly made it past security.
Realizing just as quickly that someone that made a living the way he did likely wouldn’t be deterred by something as basic as locked doors or rent-a-cops.
The man raised his eyebrows for a moment, dismissing the questions in turn, before saying, “Hell of a conversation you were having in there, Senator. Hope you didn’t mind the two of us listening in.”
Flicking his gaze to Beckwith still seated
at her desk, Ridge saw that her usual ramrod posture seemed to be even more pronounced than usual, her mouth drawn so tight that no bit of her lips could be seen.
“You okay?” Ridge whispered, knowing that the man would hear but wanting to give her the assurance that he was speaking only to her, the two of them the only ones in the room that mattered.
“Yeah, she’s fine,” the man answered, pulling Ridge’s attention back his direction, a scowl on his face. “And you’re fine, and I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
For the first time, a new feeling started to creep up within Ridge. Fleeing fast was the initial shock of seeing someone sitting in his office, dressed in black, a gun in hand.
Pouring in to take its place was anger, a deep-seated hatred for what the man represented, everything his organization had done that he knew about, the countless other things that were even worse that he had no idea of.
“So then why are you here?” Ridge asked.
As he posed the question, he began to assess the situation around him, keeping his attention aimed into the room, his mind starting to rifle through everything he knew.
Which was all decidedly bad.
There was no weapon in the office, nothing beyond some blunt objects or letter openers that would be crude at best, it illegal to bring firearms into the Capitol office buildings. Making it worse was the fact that he was standing framed in the doorway, Beckwith seated a few feet away, both presided over by a man with a gun and a clear disposition for using it.
“Really?” the man asked, his features bearing a mix of surprise and disgust. “Come now, don’t insult either of us.”
To that Ridge gave no reaction, waiting, not wanting to offer any bit of information that man might not already possess.
“I mean, did you really think you could spend all day poking through our business and nobody would show up?”
Again Ridge remained silent, staring at the man, making no effort to hide the growing loathing he felt.
Raising his free hand, the man scratched at his scalp, digging his nails in before pulling them back and inspecting them a moment. “It’s like this line I heard in a movie once. You knock on the devil’s door long enough, eventually, he’s going to answer.”
Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral Page 46