by C G Cooper
“There’s grudging respect under the loathing.”
“Sure there is. You’re right about Val. She’s a sweetheart and a good lookin’ gal. Flirts with anything in pants, too.” Chance looked at his feet. “I’ll keep my mouth shut about all the spy stuff. Anything that doesn’t concern the murders. Although, that is most of it.”
“Don’t worry. Nothing the Company doesn’t want out will make the newsfeeds.” DIOS would be kept entirely under wraps, Mac was sure. Official blame for the killings would be placed on Brian’s personal beliefs. Maybe the Justice Department would invent some story about him founding an anarchic cult to stroke his ego.
Two sheets of typing paper were sitting on the end of Brian’s desk, where Mac had positioned them for a cell phone pic the night before. He studied the chemical formula written on one of the sheets. If Brian had played straight with them, the compound described was the active ingredient in the injectable portion of PHOBOS. Company scientists would have a field day with it. Maybe they could whip up an antidote to stop his skin from itching where Tad had jabbed him in the chest.
Chance walked to the door. “Wow. Game over, man. I got my answers, you got yours. Val’s waiting for me. What about you? What’s next for Big Mac?” Before Mac could answer, he added, “Hey, you know what? We never got to use my code name.”
“I’ll put it in my report.”
“Thanks. That’s a comfort. So, you going back to the world of high-stakes poker, martinis, and miniskirts?”
“I don’t know about the miniskirts,” said Mac. “Been years since the last time I shaved my legs.”
Chance held out a hand. “Let that be my last mental image of you.”
“For now, Stryker.”
“Yeah, Boxer. For now.”
Chapter Forty-Five
“You surpassed expectations,” Anne said. She was standing in the doorway to Chandra’s office, wearing charcoal trousers and a roseate silk blouse. Despite the early hour, it made Mac feel uncouth to be caught wearing yesterday’s clothes.
He set down the bamboo tray he’d come to return. “Too many dead.”
“One more and one less than I wanted,” said Anne. “You have to break eggs, Kamauli.”
“What— What did you call me?”
“Kamauli,” she said. “It means dark youth. It was the name your mother gave you, before gran softened the blow.”
“I called her Tutu,” said Mac.
“And she called you Kamaui. Vigorous youth. A manufactured identity, from childhood up. No wonder you took an interest in the service.”
“Was there something you wanted?”
Anne folded her arms. “I have it already, darling. I’ve been chatting with your Mister Kreisburg.”
“I’m more his than he is mine.”
“No longer,” said Anne. She took three long steps into the room to study his face and body up close. “If you’re man enough to take the job, you’ll belong to me from this day forward.”
“What are you talking about?”
“DIOS, Mac. We’ve prodded the hornet’s nest. I have connections. Agents from diverse backgrounds, all loyal to me. What I lack is mobility. And a certain—” she paused to pinch his bicep, “…fermeté. I had hoped to train up one of my protégés to do field work. I see now that is work best left to a professional. You’ve helped me take my vengeance, Mac. Will you help me do some good?”
He remembered what Brian had said about revenge and wondered if she’d been listening in. Her appeal was well crafted. He was used to taking orders from bosses who told him only what he needed to know. The purity of “do some good” as a mission statement was refreshing, if she was sincere. He found himself wanting to believe in her.
“What would my duties entail?” he asked.
“This and that. My connections live all over the world. Most are academics, hiding in plain sight in many of the same universities DIOS occupies. They’re capable enough, but very few possess your special skills. I propose to deploy you as needed to DIOS-related hot spots. Mr. Kreisburg put himself forward to act as your liaison with the Company, so you’ll not lose touch.
“When you’re not active, you’ll return here to Schuyler. I feel sure that Chandra will agree to suspend your lectures in light of present turmoil. I’ll suggest she give you a proper classroom, starting with the summer semester. Bright students, limited seating. That would be more to your liking, would it not?”
Mac had to admit it would. The picture she painted of seeing the world in his guise as traveling educator was intriguing. The prospect of seeing Mikayla on his downtime was so thrilling he had to hold himself back from blurting out an acceptance.
Anne read his expression. “That dreadful little office of Mickie’s downstairs! I think it’s time she moved up in the world. Perhaps I can find you adjoining premises in Daubière. You’d not be averse? Good.” She turned to go.
“I haven’t said yes.”
“You haven’t said no, darling.”
“And the elephant in the room?”
Anne turned back to face him, hand on hip.
“Last time the students saw me, I was being hauled off for shooting a man.”
Rolling her eyes up to heaven, Anne took out her phone. “Honestly, darling. You really must get with the times.”
Mac’s phone binged. He picked it up from the edge of Chandra’s side table and opened the link Anne had texted. The slow-motion video playing on the screen clearly showed the woman, whom he now knew as Cora, squeezing the trigger of Mac’s gun. Jordan Ross held the barrel steady, welcoming his death.
The filmographer cut away to record her escape. She’d done more damage than Mac had realized, dropping one bystander with an elbow to the neck and tripping another backwards as she cleared her path. The last few seconds of the video showed him cradling Jordan’s body, hand on chest, as the kid’s blood pumped out between his fingers.
“Who took this?”
“A gifted student. One who knows how to pick the best angles.”
“One of yours.”
“The cleverest are. But I can’t take all the credit. From the moment you left, Chandra made it her mission to ensure the most positive clips got the widest circulation. She’s a gem. Her good deeds are ex causa sui, you understand, but wonderfully useful. That clip exonerated you in the public eye. And there is another, of you rescuing a girl from the stampede, that made you a hero. Within an hour of your arrest, calls went out for your release.”
Mac blinked at the phone in his hands. “That’s— I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes, Mac. Accept my proposal. Begin your new life.” She held out a hand.
“I’ll have to think about it,” he said, meeting her eyes.
“Think all you like, darling. I’ll give you until noon.”
She backed away a step.
“One more thing,” said Mac, remembering a question he’d been wanting to ask. “The lipstick. What was in it?”
“Neuropeptides. Depressants. An anti-hallucinogenic,” said Anne. “Emma added a sedative the first night.” She produced a tube from her pocket and tossed it to him. “You might say it’s a vaccine against fear.”
He twisted the tube. “Does it come in my color?”
“I’ll look into it. But I’m not running a mail-order service, you know.”
Mac grinned. “Maybe we can work something out.”
Chapter Forty-Six
The volunteer crew shoveling snow into heaps swelled so gradually that Mac didn’t notice its development from a bunch to a cluster to a crowd. Head down, he put his back into every scoop of his shovel, only pausing to high-five new arrivals. Not every passerby wished him well, of course. He recognized a few faces from the front row of the last protest. They gave him dirty looks.
An hour after he had joined the volunteers, to whoops and applause, Paul Arken showed up. The scarecrow’s arm was in a sling. A palm-sized patch of gauze was taped to his forehead.
Mac
looked up as he approached. Arken didn’t speak. Mac thought for a second that he was going to end their feud with a grudging nod, but the moment passed. The scarecrow straightened up, squared his shoulders, marched on. Mac didn’t mind. The workout was just what he needed this morning; he wasn’t about to let Arken’s mood sour his own.
He led the shovel team from the steps of Administration all the way around Morris Green. They rested for a time in front of Fountain Tunnel then trooped in a long line past the yellow door. Beginning at the opposite mouth, Mac blazed a trail around the copper basin, skirted the steps to the library, and bent south toward Grant-Spencer.
He was sitting on the edge of the fountain when Mikayla waved to him from the east end of The Crossing. He excused himself from the conversation he’d been having with a crowd of students and met her halfway.
“Are you all right?” she said.
“I am now.”
“Last night—” She shook her head. “I was in front-and-center, like I promised. When I heard what happened, I didn’t know— Who was that woman and the man she shot?”
“We don’t know all the details,” he said. Even this half-truth made him feel guilty.
“People are saying Professor Jarrald was marched out early this morning by the police.”
“I’ve been in touch with a friend of mine from New York BCI. They think Brian was involved in Tiffany Garrett’s death.” He thought of Lynn, wished her peace. “It’ll all come out in the end. For now—”
“Is there a now?” she said. “After last night, I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again.”
He spread his hands. “Aloha.”
The look she gave him was deeply skeptical. She could tell he was playing his cards close to his chest. It struck him, like a board to the back of the skull, that she could easily walk away.
“You’re gonna have to give me more than that,” she said. “What’s happening with you? Are you staying, are you going?”
“I’m—”
The buzz of Fu-Fu’s gyros cut him off. He looked at the copter, imagined what Kreisburg was seeing through its lens. The Crossing was packed with shovel-wielding students, faculty, staff. As he looked over his shoulder, Chandra stepped through the door from Grant-Spencer. She covered her cheeks with her mittens, amazed at the progress the volunteers had made.
A few days before, he couldn’t have brought himself to be part of this spectacle. He wasn’t sure how he was putting up with the close-quarters now. Maybe Anne’s neuropeptides were better than she let on. She had said they were a vaccine against fear. More like an antidote. Or maybe the antidote was standing in front of him.
“I’ll stay as long as you want,” he said.
She let him sweat for a few seconds more. Then, seizing the collar of his jacket, she stood on tiptoes and kissed him. The students cheered. Chandra covered her eyes, but her smile was beaming. Behind Mikayla’s back, Mac tugged off his left glove. He rolled up his sleeve, tapped the watch to bring up his countdown. It read 07:15:48.
He clicked the instrument’s crown and zeroed it out.
Epilogue
The icy wind blew Kristina Arkyadov’s hair into her face. She puffed an exasperated breath, set her Lobaev in the snow, and removed her backpack. It took only a few seconds to locate her white balaclava mask.
In those seconds, the convoy she’d been observing through the sniper rifle’s scope had advanced one hundred feet. In less than a minute, it would approach the spike strips she had stretched across the road.
One way or another, the convoy would be forced to stop. The total time it remained motionless would not be long, unless the drivers were fools. But Kristina didn’t need much time.
She steadied the rifle, laying it across the seat of her dirt bike. When she knelt to put her eye back to the scope, the balaclava, which she’d bunched up as a cap, rested against the scope, applying fractional pressure every time she moved her head. She shoved it back, but that set a wisp of hair spiraling into her field of vision.
Cursing in Chechen, she propped the gun against the bike. Again, she combed through her backpack, seeking some scrap of material to tie her hair back. She found a knife.
She had trimmed her hair by no more than an inch for the year-and-a-half she’d attended university. In her younger days, she had worn it at shoulder length, not out of fashion, but to make it easy to care for.
When the time had come to reinvent herself as a Schuyler student, she’d chosen to grow it out. She’d learned to style it in layers, substituting effort for expense. Long and silken, it was her glory, the grandest deception in her pretty disguise.
Grasping the knife’s handle, she uncovered its blade. Sharper than any razor, the three-inch claw felt alive in her grasp. Like Kristina, it yearned to be wielded. With untamed ferocity, she scythed it through her hair. Her motions were smooth; she didn’t have to jerk or saw. The blade’s edge was keen.
It took under a dozen passes to shave her head almost to the scalp. Kristina shoved every fistful of hair into her backpack.
Her grooming done, she braced the Lobaev and returned her eye to the scope. Now the convoy was less than two hundred feet from the spike strip. Kristina scanned the line of vehicles. Her target was sitting in the back of the middle SUV. She had no trouble picking out the fat man. If she had not been under orders, she would have taken a shot while the vehicles were still in motion. It was too easy, killing sitting ducks. Perhaps she should shoot the driver, too, and the good-looking man accompanying her condemned former ally.
The lead SUV applied its brakes too late. It skidded across the spike strip, tires giving out soundlessly. Kristina’s target vehicle veered away. Its front tires passed the spike strip while its back end skidded away from Kristina. She fired before it could complete its spin. The rifle’s report was piercing, only slightly deadened by her earplugs.
She didn’t have to shoot twice. Had she desired, she could have waited for the SUV to come to a stop then proceeded with the witnesses. But she was uncertain what resources the convoy might bring to bear. Rather than validate her impeccable marksmanship, she decided the wiser use of time was to increase her lead on the inevitable search.
From the valley below, she could hear men barking orders. She couldn’t make out their words, but the panic in their voices swelled her heart with pride. Working swiftly, she secured her backpack to the handlebars of her bike. The rifle she zipped in its soft case, which she strapped to her back. Covering her head with the balaclava, she kick-started the bike.
As the confusion she’d birthed gave way to fear, she took a moment to picture the face of the dead man. He had known her as Cora. She had known him by multiple names, none of which were relevant now. With her strong right hand, she had wiped away the stain he had left on the organization that was her mother, her father, her home. Satisfied at a job well done, she disappeared into the deep woods, laughing all the way.
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Also by C. G. Cooper
The Corps Justice Series In Order:
Back To War
Council Of Patriots
Prime Asset
Presidential Shift
National Burden
Lethal Misconduct
Moral Imperative
Disavowed
Chain Of Command
Papal Justice
The Zimmer Doctrine
Sabotage
Liberty Down
Sins Of The Father
Corps Justice Short Stories:
Chosen
God-Speed
Running
The Daniel Briggs Novels:
Adrift
Fallen
Broken
Tested
The Tom Greer Novels
A Life Worth Taking
The Spy In Residence Novels
What Lies Hidden
The Alex Knight Novels
Breakout
The Stars & Spies Series:
Backdrop
The Patriot Protocol Series:
The Patriot Protocol
The Chronicles of Benjamin Dragon:
Benjamin Dragon – Awakening
Benjamin Dragon – Legacy
Benjamin Dragon - Genesis
About the Author
C. G. Cooper is the USA TODAY and AMAZON BESTSELLING author of the CORPS JUSTICE novels (including spinoffs), The Chronicles of Benjamin Dragon and the Patriot Protocol series.
Cooper grew up in a Navy family and traveled from one Naval base to another as he fed his love of books and a fledgling desire to write.
Upon graduating from the University of Virginia with a degree in Foreign Affairs, Cooper was commissioned in the United States Marine Corps and went on to serve six years as an infantry officer. C. G. Cooper's final Marine duty station was in Nashville, Tennessee, where he fell in love with the laid-back lifestyle of Music City.
His first published novel, BACK TO WAR, came out of a need to link back to his time in the Marine Corps. That novel, written as a side project, spawned many follow-on novels, several exciting spinoffs, and catapulted Cooper's career.
Cooper lives just south of Nashville with his wife, three children, and their German shorthaired pointer, Liberty, who's become a popular character in the Corps Justice novels.
When he's not writing or hosting his podcast, Books In 30, Cooper spends time with his family, does his best to improve his golf handicap, and loves to shed light on the ongoing fight of everyday heroes.