Arch Enemy

by Leo J. Maloney

  “How should I know? I had no idea about any of this.”

  “We have to talk to her about it. Find out what’s causing her to act out.”

  “I mean, smoking in school?” said Ansley. “Caught drinking? What is going on with that girl?”

  “It’s not like she talks to me. But maybe if we sit down with her and offer her a safe space to—”

  “She needs consequences. First thing we do when we get back is search her room. I mean everything. If she has so much as a piece of candy she’s not supposed to have, I’m going to find it.”

  “We can’t!” said Annemarie. “It’ll push her away. How is she supposed to trust us enough if she—”

  “She needs consequences for her actions,” Ansley barked at her. “And that’s what I’m going to give her, so help me—I mean, can you believe that two-bit school counselor, suggesting that it’s our fault? That we’re not present enough, that Pam is acting out because she lives in a hostile home environment? Oh please.”

  “Well . . .” Annemarie began.

  “Well what?”

  “You could try to mellow out,” she said. “Sometimes. You yell at her an awful lot, and you don’t really give her the space to—”

  “Don’t give her space? She’s got all the space she wants! She spends all afternoon locked in her room. Doesn’t even come down for dinner, and you think she needs space?”

  “I just mean that she doesn’t feel comfortable sharing anything when you’re there. She needs to—”

  “Oh, typical of you to blame me.”

  “I was just suggesting that you—”

  “Like I don’t do enough for this damn family. I bust my ass at work, I come home tired every day, and I still have to deal with a sullen teenager and you pointing your finger at every little thing I do.” He made a brusque turn into the post office parking lot, braking hard at the space. “I have to get some stamps.” He got out of the car and slammed the door.

  He walked into the post office and opened the post office box.

  Empty.

  He slammed it shut and locked it again.

  As he turned to leave, he saw Annemarie standing there at the door of the post office, looking at him. He wasn’t carrying any stamps. Hadn’t even gotten in line. She’d caught him red-handed.

  “Get back in the car, Annemarie,” he growled.

  Chapter 53

  “I t was like a bad dream.”

  Alex sat cradling an Americano across from Hillary Chen at Campus Coffee. She was pretty—not in the sense that she was born with it, although that was also true, but she was one of those women for whom pretty was part of who they were and wanted to be. She had a certain bearing, an enviable poise. Alex could tell she was a master at doing her own makeup, too, with a heavier hand with the mascara in a way that complemented her eyes and a subtle and natural blush. Her hair was thick and lustrous. Her clothes were elegant and tailored, fitted to her form without a trace of vulgarity. And what was most remarkable: she had no reason to impress Alex. This, as far as she could tell, was her everyday attire.

  Alex, in contrast, was wearing blue jeans and a tank top under her sweater, no makeup, no effort made on her hair except a couple bobby pins to keep her bangs off her eyes.

  “I just pushed it out of my mind,” Hillary continued. “I thought I could get away from it by ignoring it. And I guess I did. I work, I lead a full life. But it never stopped nagging in the back of my mind. And your call, it brought it all back.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I didn’t have the capacity to deal with it then, but I do now. I’m not vulnerable anymore. I’m not afraid.”

  Alex found herself jealous of Hillary’s self-possession. Alex’s own shortcomings became embarrassing, and her excuses for not becoming a better person felt petty. She wanted to be strong, like Hillary.

  “Does that mean you’ll come forward?”

  Hillary stared out the window at the falling snow. She sipped her cappuccino. “I’m out of college now,” she said. “The bastard can’t hurt me anymore.” She looked Alex in the eye. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll come forward. I’ll speak on the record.”

  “Maybe you won’t have to do it alone. There’s someone else who I think they might have targeted, too. A girl called Annette Baig.”

  Hillary’s countenance darkened. Without a word, she searched for something on her phone and slid it across the table to Alex.

  It was an article on Annette Baig—an obituary. Somehow, Alex and Simon had neglected to run a simple Google search. Alex read below the headline. It was dated three years before, which is why she never graduated. It said she—

  “She took her own life,” said Alex.

  “I remember it was a big deal at the time. They found her out in the woods beyond the observatory.”

  “This was the semester Assistant Coach Groener went to talk to her. Do you think—?”

  “We can’t know.”

  No, Alex supposed she couldn’t draw a simple line from point A to point B. But—she curled her hands into fists—if Groener had any fault in this, he would pay. She would make certain of it.

  “I want to take it to the press first,” said Alex. “I don’t trust the university not to make this disappear. I want to make it impossible for them to ignore it.”

  Hillary considered this. “That sounds like a plan.”

  “I’m thinking of a reporter we can contact. Someone from the Inquirer. I’ve looked into some possibilities. There’s this one girl. She strikes me as the kind of shark this story needs.”

  “Let me know when you know. I’ll tell her whatever I can to help.”

  Alex smiled, and her eyes nearly welled with tears. She had it. It was within her grasp.

  “You know,” said Hillary, “I don’t know you very well, but I already admire the heck out of you.”

  Alex choked on her coffee. “Are you kidding? You’re, like, this totally amazing woman, making it in the big city. I can barely pass my classes in college.” Her shoulders hunched in shame. “I may not.”

  “But you’re doing something harder and more meaningful than any other student at this school,” she said. “I wouldn’t—I didn’t— have the guts to do what you’re doing as a senior, let alone as a freshman.”

  “You have a lot more guts coming forward. It’s personal for you. For me it’s only a weird fixation.”

  “Don’t minimize this.” Hillary stood up from her chair. “You’re my hero, Alex Morgan. And I’ve got your back. You need help getting up?”

  Alex waved her off, buoyed with pride. She polished off her coffee, scalding her throat in the process, and stood up without any major disasters.

  Hillary held the café door open for Alex.

  “So, I gotta get back to the city,” she said. “You need a ride anywhere?”

  “I’m good.”

  Hillary smiled. “Thank you again.” She moved in and hugged Alex, waving a silent good-bye before walking away.

  Alex turned back toward Prather House.

  It was time to get in touch with the reporter. She took out her phone and scrolled to the contact she had already saved in anticipation of this moment.

  “Hi, Francine? You don’t know me, but I have a hell of a story for you. I’d like to sit down and have some coffee. As soon as you can.”

  Chapter 54

  Morgan was dropped off by the driver at the apartment Jakande had set up in Abidjan for the tactical team. It was a three-bedroom, populated with Soviet-style furniture. The tactical team kept it in a state of military neatness. White was sitting on the couch, shrinking under Tango’s watchful eyes. Spartan snored, asleep on an armchair in the corner. Diesel was whistling in the kitchen, preparing a sandwich. Morgan’s stomach rumbled.

  He still had red paint on his face, mingled with dried blood from the beating he had taken from Madaki’s bodyguard.

  “How you doin’, killer?” Bishop asked Morgan with a fist bump.

 
; “Long ride back when you’re driving,” he said. “Jakande’s soldiers secured the house. They got a couple of Madaki’s lieutenants. They’ll have no problem finding whatever’s left of his scattered forces. You guys all right?”

  “Fine, except for having to look after Whitey over here.” Bishop gave Mr. White a slap on the back of the head.

  Morgan pulled up a chair, dragging it close to White, so that their knees were almost touching.

  “Hello there, Señor White. Have these guys been treating you well?”

  He was trembling. “Wh-what are you going to do to me?” he stammered.

  Morgan’s mouth broke into a wolfish grin. With all the bruises and paint, he must have been a grotesque sight. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen.” Morgan slapped a hand on White’s knee. “We’re going to be friends, you and me. Bee-eff-effs. Isn’t that right, Tango?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re gonna come over to my house, and we’re going to have a slumber party. Pizza, pillow fights. And then you’re going to whisper all your secrets in my ear.”

  White was sweating and wringing his hands, all color drained from his face. Morgan sat back, putting his feet up on the couch next to White.

  “A lot of good men are dead because of your greed. Families driven out of their homes and destroyed. I want nothing more than to toss you in the middle of the people whose lives you destroyed and watch them tear you apart.”

  White whimpered.

  “But I can’t do that. You’re too valuable to us. I need to know what you know. And if you talk, I pinky-swear that you won’t be tried in a state that allows the death penalty.”

  “I have records of everything,” he said, tripping over his words to get them out. “I’ll give you everything you need to bury every last person at Acevedo who had a finger in the arms-dealing pie. Drugs, too. I want to make a deal.”

  “Good,” said Morgan. “We’re taking you stateside. Some nice men are going to negotiate this deal with you—”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Hold that thought.”

  Morgan got up and opened the door. On the other side was a slender short-haired woman with a scar across her chest, her right arm in a sling.

  Yolande.

  “General Jakande is here,” she said, all business. “He is coming up.”

  “How’s your arm?”

  She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “It is being tended to.”

  The elevator arrived on the floor and out came two heavy bodyguards in black suits. They were followed by Jakande, in his military uniform and trademark Colt .45. Yolande stood at attention with military blankness.

  “Mr. Bevelacqua,” he said with a warm smile, extending a hand in greeting. “Madaki is dead and his forces are routed. I have you to thank for that. All of you,” he added, looking at the assembled Zeta tactical team.

  Morgan shook the general’s hand. “Thanks for saving the day.”

  “We saw an opportunity to end Madaki’s reign and we took it. I pressed the high command, and General Onobanjo did not have the courage to stand against us. He is a rational man, after all.” Jakande turned his attention to White. “And I see you got your man.”

  “He’s going to be interrogated. We’re taking his whole company down. They won’t be bringing guns into your country anymore.”

  “Good. And we will bring Dimka’s uprising under the purview of the army. With their help, we will find Madaki’s remaining mines and free the people there. There will be no more slaves in Côte d’Ivoire.” He lay his hand on Yolande’s good shoulder. “My operative told me of your extraordinary bravery, Bevelacqua. You have my eternal gratitude—and that of my country.”

  “Maybe we can help each other out again someday.”

  “I’ve no doubt. Just one more thing before I take my leave.”

  Jakande drew his sidearm and shot White three times in the chest.

  The Zeta team sprang into action. All drew their weapons, as did Jakande’s bodyguards and Yolande. Weaponless, Morgan faced Jakande, who was holding his gun at his side. He could hear the heavy breathing of the team behind him, finger triggers itchy.

  Mexican standoff. Morgan’s least favorite kind.

  Jakande holstered his Colt .45 and raised his hand. Yolande and his bodyguards put away their weapons as well. “Easy,” said the general. “I have no quarrel with any of you.”

  “Stand down,” said Morgan. Bristling, the team lowered their weapons. He addressed Jakande. “Why?”

  “I am a rational man, too, Mr. Bevelacqua. And when I am threatened by powers greater than myself, I know not to stand athwart them.”

  “You have an army at your disposal. What power can beat that?”

  “Information,” said Jakande. Morgan caught a hint of shame in his expression.

  “Who? Acevedo?”

  “I will not say more. The cars are downstairs to take you to the airport. Don’t worry about him.” He indicated White’s twitching corpse. “It will be taken care of. Just make your arrangements and go.”

  “Sorry,” said Yolande, resting her hand on his arm. She followed Jakande out the door.

  “What the hell was that?” said Tango.

  “Big man flexing his muscles,” said Bishop.

  Morgan looked down at the body. They had him. They had what they needed to bring down Acevedo. And it had slipped through their fingers yet again.

  “I need to call Bloch,” said Morgan. “I need to know what the hell is going on.”

  Bishop handed Morgan a tablet computer and pointed him to a bedroom. Morgan sat down at a desk with the computer and hailed Bloch.

  “Good Lord, Morgan, what is on your face?”

  He told her what Jakande did.

  “That is troubling,” she said.

  “He double-crossed us. This can’t stand.”

  “This can and will stand,” said Bloch. “If White is dead, there is nothing else to be done. We will not act hastily in reprisal. Jakande may still be a valuable ally.”

  “He just shot our witness!”

  “This is not for you to decide. We will conduct an investigation. In the meantime, we cut our losses and look forward. It’s time for you and tactical to go to the airport.”

  He sat back in his chair, exhaling. “At least after all this it’ll be good to go home.”

  “You are not coming home.”

  “What?”

  “You have a new mission. In Ireland. We’ll brief you on the way.”

  Chapter 55

  “I can’t believe you,” said Simon.

  The dining hall was bustling with the dinner crowd, red-faced students coming in ravenous from the cold. Alex tossed a curly fry in her mouth and, before even swallowing, took a bite of her burger, searing hot and juicy.

  Simon sat across from her at one of the square tables, agog at what she had been telling him, and not in a good way.

  “This is what we were working for,” she said through a full mouth of hamburger.

  “You’re back in.”

  She swallowed with effort. “I caught a real break with Hillary Chen.”

  “What about getting your life back on track?”

  “I meant it,” she said. “I really did. But don’t you get it? It’s happening, Simon. We’re going to do it.”

  “You’re going to do it,” he said. “I want no more involvement in this insanity.”

  He got up and stormed off.

  “What about your food?” Alex asked, but he didn’t stick around long enough to hear it.

  She shrugged and took the onion rings from the tray he had left. More for her.

  The reporter, Francine Krynick, didn’t want to meet over coffee. After Alex gave her the bare bones of her findings, she insisted they get together in one of the private study rooms in the dorm basement. They sat across the beech table from each other. The room had windows to the computer lab that led into it, but it was soundproof, which was one of its main virtu
es.

  Francine had wild frizzy hair, which she didn’t try to contain at all so that it ended up sticking out in every direction, some locks curled and some not. She wore, over manic-looking eyes, glasses, square, thick black oversized plastic frames, which she pushed back up when they slid down her face every couple of minutes.

  Alex finished relating everything that had happened thus far, ending on her conversation with Hillary Chen.

  “That’s quite a story,” Francine said finally, looking over her notes. “I have . . . questions.”

  “I would imagine.”

  She asked more about the party at the frat house. Alex described it in minute detail, being careful to omit Katie’s name.

  “How did you get access to the visitor logs at the health center?”

  “I think we’d better skip that one.”

  “Illegal then?” Francine shook her head as she jotted down a note on her pad. “They’ll come after me to find out how I came by it.”

  “They will. Will that be a problem?”

  Francine laughed. “I’ll get word out on the blogosphere. The more the university hounds me for this, the more people will come to my side. And, not incidentally, the more people will read my article and know my name.”

  Alex knew then she’d made the right choice with Francine. Something she’d learned from her father: sometimes, it’s better to have a selfish person who will benefit from helping you than an honorable one who won’t.

  “To be clear, this girl you’re talking about is not willing to talk, not even off the record?”

  “No,” said Alex.

  “But”—Francine shuffled through her notes—“Hillary Chen will speak to me on the record?”

  “I can guarantee it.”

  “And you?”

  “I don’t want my name anywhere on it,” Alex said. “As far as your article is concerned, I don’t exist. Are we clear?”

  “Which means I get full investigative credit.”

  “Right. Cite me as an anonymous source if you’d like. But that’s all. The more you take credit for, the better.”

  “Not gonna take issue with that.”

  “So you’re in?” Alex asked.