McConnell said nothing.
“Well.” Garrett flung back the fake license. “What do we do, here?”
“I could break your neck and drive off in my new car.”
“You could. You do know how to make an exit. But why, mate?”
Why was right. Garrett didn’t know him anymore than he knew Garrett, which probably wasn’t his name, either. They could keep it that way, none the wiser, none the deader. He was done with killing. And he had what he came for: the money.
“Aye, seeing reason. All’s well that ends well, eh? No blood no foul, we all keep our gobs shut, go our separates and enjoy our Guinness and Guineas. Enough dosh to keep you in running shoes for a while.”
McConnell said nothing.
“Good talk.” Garrett winked. “Caper for the books. I’m off.” He glanced up at the sky. “Wouldn’t dawdle, maybe twenty-minutes before the drones circle back. Cheers mate!” He tossed a casual salute and disappeared into the corn, reappearing at the far edge, scrabbling up the slope.
McConnell waited until the SUV reversed back the way they had come and he was alone, deep in the dark crotch of Texas, with keys to a dead Mexican’s car with a trunk full of money. Almost as easy as pie.
An hour later, the Malibu wiped clean and ditched, he was heading back north.
Spokane, Washington
Twenty-five hours later he rubbed at aching eyes as he cleared Idaho and broke the Spokane County line, a blazing persimmon in the rearview striking the world a dusky orange. Another hour and he smiled at the sight of Marissa’s Honda in his driveway. The garage door sealed itself and he hid the money in the boat cabin and went inside.
It was quiet. Clothes were everywhere, as were pizza and to-go containers. The bastard cats manned their posts. Didn’t offer to divulge just what had transpired.
He found Marissa and Katie in his room, the bigger protectively around the smaller who now had blondish hair. That wasn’t going to go over well with Carrie.
Geronimo woofed, saw it was him, wagged and yawned.
“Quiet,” mumbled Katie, dreamily reaching out to his muzzle. The dog lay back down, Katie’s hand following to rest upon his head. “Goo’ dog.”
With a contented sigh, Geronimo returned to his own canine dreams.
McConnell slipped gently behind Marissa and she stirred, sleepy eyes taking him in, nestling her pink-clad bottom back against him. The dark, dirty violence of the road was washed away by warm vanilla, soft seas, blooming citrus and passionate, sleepy emeralds.
“Mon tigre… vous êtes à la maison,” Marissa Flynn whispered, nuzzling his unshaven face, pulling his arm tightly around them.
He touched his daughter’s cheek and sighed.
“I’m home,” he said. And John McConnell was.
CHAPTER 45
AUGUST
Round Rock, Texas
Chad Lucas was “Drunk as a skunk” as his dad used to say. Never overly fond of spirits, the Lucases more teetotalers really, he had drunk more tonight than he had in the past ten years. Lying on the bar next to a beer chaser was his sidearm. Loaded, safety off.
“Bobby, you sumbitch, don’ thing’ I don’ see you ’voidin’ me. Hi’ me again.”
Bobby reluctantly poured another.
“Let me get you a cab, Mister Lucas, huh?” he asked for the fourth time.
“I can drive,” Lucas snarled. He tossed back the shot of tequila, washed it down with the last of his beer, some of which actually managed to find his mouth. “Wasch’ me.”
Wiping his chin, he peered around the bar, rocking on his heels. It was empty save for a couple petting heavy in the back booth. Good for them. An ugly, brutal world. If you could get a handful of pussy before you left it then at least you didn’t leave empty-handed.
“This worl’s a fuckin’ cisspool!” he announced. No one cared. Not even Bobby. Screw them; he knew it was a cesspool. Petey Jackson had known it, too.
Grabbing up his gun he threw down all the cash he had. Shipping out to Tikrit, Bobby had four mouths to feed and another on the way. Reservists, bad luck of the draw in this war. But plenty of that to go around.
Today, he had sullied another man’s reputation for all eternity. Not that the man was a particularly good man, but neither was he.
“You sure you don’t want that cab, Mister Lucas?”
Lucas waved it away. He staggered outside, into the humid tang of a Texas summer night. Scanned the parking lot. An unfamiliar black Escalade idled across the street. He pointed his gun at it. The driver drove off. He watched it blearily, warily, hopped into his Chevy Avalanche and went home.
Home a gorgeous, pine-green monstrosity he shouldn’t be able to afford. Couldn’t on his Army salary. The color reminded him of the Army. When he came home he wanted not to think about the goddamn Army, wanted to just enjoy his twin daughters and little baby boy and still chubby wife. Fuck the goddamn Army.
He pushed open the door into flickering darkness. He was late so she would be waiting up watching TV.
“Tanya?”
“Mhm?” mumbled a sleepy voice. “Late one, huh?”
“I uh, yeah, ya’ know. I jus’-I ha’ ta stop fo’ a beer.” He fell onto the couch beside her. She was sprawled out in a teddy, the hum of the air conditioning battling with the sound of Nik at Nite. Jack Trooper stumbling through trouble, Chrissy snorting her way right along with him.
Tanya sat up, rubbed at her eyes. She weighed him, weighed his troubles. Might never be the prom queen he had fallen for back in Michigan but still cute as a button, and he was in love with her as much as the day he had married her.
“Wanna talk it out?” she asked, rubbing his thigh.
“Can’t,” and he couldn’t. Definitely shouldn’t.
“Talk around it like you do.”
He shook his head. “I di’ somethin’.”
“What? What did you do?” she asked sweetly.
“Can’t tell ya.’”
“Why?”
He gave her a grim smile. “’Cause he’ll kill us, baby. They’ll kill us all.”
San Diego, California
Duffy’s first floor apartment left a lot to be desired but he did have access to a small yard in the back shared by Mrs. Corrado and her cat. Neither complained that he smoked, at least not to his face. He was doing so now, sitting on a cheap patio chair. He could just make out the TV in Mrs. Corrado’s living room through her slider. Gloria Rosen was on—what was her show? America in Focus. He couldn’t hear the sound through the glass, not with the Tejano blasting from an apartment upstairs, but when they started rolling grainy Circle-K security footage he had a pretty good idea what the subject was.
He watched the two gangbangers bend over the counter, clawing up cash from the register. Six seconds in, each takes two shots in the back and crumples to the hard tile. At nine, one starts dragging himself towards the exit; eleven and a half seconds, two more rounds end his crawl, one taking a sizable chunk out of his skull.
“I thought I’d find you out here,” Abbey said from behind him. Her hand massaged his neck then stopped when she saw the event of two years ago as they were rolling it again. Duffy imagined Gloria giving a play-by-play. Hell he could call in and do it for her—
The blinds were pulled. They danced to and fro as Mrs. Corrado’s scowl peered between them, her cat in her arms, then she disappeared like her TV.
Duffy continued to stare at where its glow had been.
Abbey started to massage his neck again. “You were right. My place is better.”
He looked up at her. She gave him her smile, tossed her long dark hair and stepped back inside the slider.
With a parting glance at Mrs. Corrado’s, he snuffed out his smoke, double-tapped the pack of Raleighs and followed after her.
Denver, Colorado
“And this smear campaign against Jackson will obfuscate further speculation?”
“It should.” Barringer’s fist squeezed the sat-phone hard enough to
make the plastic whine. Lucas or this prick, it was neck and neck as to who was more aggravating tonight.
“Should or will? Last we spoke, General, you made it clear that you had this well in hand.”
Politics never his forte, neither were explanations.
“We suffered a setback,” he replied. “The husband of the woman who Jackson was screwing disappeared.” Apparently right before Lucas’s inept eyes. All Tan tasked him to do was keep an eye on the broken junkie. “The kiddie porn was a quick contingency. It’ll throw the yahoos for a loop while we root out the shooter,” or he pops back up again. The latter more likely if they were to have a chance to find him.
“I would remind you we’ve many irons in the fire, and without wood to burn those irons will run cold, break, and so will our mission. Time is, as always, of the essence. We can ill afford to waste it playing hide and seek with the local bureaucrats.”
“Things happen. It’s a long war, Mr. Secretary.”
“Indeed. Again, perhaps it is time we discuss alternatives.” Alternatives meaning replacements for him.
“You can discuss whatever with whomever you want. I’ve got work to do.”
“You’ll brook no argument from me on that. But before you get to your work, some of the Doctrine are concerned about the news reports that they have identified the weapon as a Marine Corps rifle.”
“It’s a best guess by Quantico, and I mean guess. AR-15 knock-offs have the same barreling, same rifling as the M40A3. They’re trying to spook the shooter. May be trying to rattle Lucas as well.”
“Is Mister Lucas rattle-able?”
How much to tell. “I have concerns. Competency, not loyalty. His responsibilities have been reassigned.”
“So the FBI?”
“Remains in the dark.”
“And your investigation?”
“Priority one for Tan’s team.”
“But in the dark as well. We’re sure this shooter isn’t in any part of our operation?”
“You read the report. All personnel accounted for, military or otherwise, and all those with special skills have been fully revetted. Your old company forthcoming?”
“Rest assured there was zero involvement of any domestic TLA, official op or otherwise. And nothing to indicate a recognized foreign agency either. Which leaves us with terrorism.”
“Not with an agenda. No demands, no claims for the shootings. It’s more the hallmarks of a lone wolf. Simple message: ‘I know what you’re doing.’”
“So you still believe this has to do with our operation?”
No proof yet, he was possessed of a nagging irritation that it was, like a rock in his boot on a hump without end.
“Jackson getting in a car accident? Falling down the stairs? Taking a knife in a bar fight, all possible. Credible. But this was blatant execution. Of the key player at the depot.”
“Blue Zeta is at your disposal, General. Utilize them.”
He was. But their SIGINT team needed at least one electronic dot to connect to the rest. That dot was still in the wind.
“Keep me informed then, General. Enjoy your evening.”
Barringer planned on it.
He tossed the phone on the bed, stepped over to the tall windows, scotch in hand. The city view from the exec suite atop the Westin Tabor Center might have been impressive during daylight, with the background of the Rockies to emphasize the diamond of civilization nestled in the rough but at night it was just typical high-rises with rows of light between. Safe and peaceful. America blissfully asleep.
Tombari had raised a flag. Danny Jones had gotten greedy. He was screwing the numbers up in Iraq and not in the usual screwy bookkeeping way that had netted them over eleven billion dollars this past year. PGW had found their way into the news again and certain people in Congress had taken an interest. Looked like Jones was going to have to fall on his knife. Or Fall on Tan’s.
First Jackson, now Jew-boy Jones.
Jackson at least would be missed. All in all, a good boy, had done a good job, made them money and made Barringer laugh. Better class than the niggers and spics offing one another over drugs and whores. Greedy and bloodthirsty. How would Jew-boy Jones fare in that seedy business? Or Tombari? He snorted. The jackals would tear them apart.
Speaking of predators, it was time to let Tan off the leash. If he couldn’t find a crack in the wall he was going to have to make some of his own. Lucas was a fuck up, he hoped the boy knew it, because it was about to go wet and it was all his fault.
He tossed back the rest of his scotch. “You can come out now,” he yelled.
The bathroom door opened and out slinked a blonde waif in cheap black lingerie. A crescent-shaped scar marred one corner of her mouth. A present from Tombari, swore the girl could suck golf balls through a garden hose.
“Blow’s on the table, like you asked.” He pointed to the glass coffee table where a small pile of pristine cocaine waited. She eyed the coke, licked her lips like a starved rat, eyes darting between him and the powder. “Go ahead.”
She dropped to her knees, cut two lines and snorted. She rocked back on her heels. Rubbing a taste along her gums, eyes gleaming, she boasted, “Baby, I’m gonna make you come like a fire hydrant. Whattaya say ta’ that, huh?”
He lit a cigar. He walked to the bar, poured another drink. “How old are you?”
“How old you want me to be?”
He turned and stared her down.
“I’m fifteen. Almost.”
“I say dance for two hours. You do that, I’ll give you a thousand bucks. And you say nothing to anyone.”
She considered. “And the coke?”
“Take it, too.”
She shrugged, turned on the TV with the remote, found some nigger reggae music.
He returned to his vigil at the window. He caught her reflection as she twirled, snorted a line, twirled even harder. Outside, America slept.
Austin, Texas
He pulled the Escalade inside, waited for the automatic garage door to drop down. He listened. Nothing but the tick of the hot engine, the low rasp of the AC winding down. The rancher was silent.
He grabbed the Home Depot bag from the passenger’s and went inside to a typical working-class household, typical with one difference. Down the creaking steps into the half-finished basement, he approached a solid door, drew the bolt-locks and opened it on silent hinges. He liked that; a soundproof room should have silent hinges. He entered, closed the door and flicked on the fluorescents that ran the ceiling. The walls were smooth, so was the floor, with a half-food diameter drain inset next to the feet of Jeffrey Marburger, burger-flipper, junkie, former husband of Lita Marburger.
Jeffrey was strapped naked to a metal chair with duct tape over his mouth.
He slipped out of his jacket, hung it neatly on the back of another chair. Slid this chair to the far end of the room, drew yet another close to Jeffrey, who flinched, mumbled something unintelligible but obviously very important as he rolled up his sleeves.
He fished his switchblade out of a pocket and flicked the blade. Jeffrey’s eyes went wide.
“No no,” Tan assured, “this isn’t for you.”
He drew his purchase from the Home Depot bag. Like everything nowadays, it was encased in impossible plastic. “This is for this,” he said, slicing through it to the prize within. “These are for you.”
Jeffrey’s eyes went wider. Snot blew out his nose. He tried to slide the chair backwards as he had for hours but that particular chair was still bolted to the floor.
Tan sat down and brandished the shiny pliers with the red-rubber handle. “How do you think he started with that little girl?” he asked in earnest, opening and closing the pliers. They had a smooth motion. He liked the way the teeth clapped together. He wondered if Pincer Parish had felt the same way about his tool of trade.
Jeffrey moaned something crucially time sensitive but still garbled.
“I think he started with the face.”
&nb
sp; And that’s where Tan started, too.
Afterword
You’ve come this far. Care to come a little further?
Book 2, Trigger Effect, available now in the Kindle Store, continues John McConnell’s vigilante odyssey through the American empire.
If you would like to stay updated on future releases, subscribe to my newsletter at www.willvanallen.com
Jackboot Page 32