by Dan Ames
For June, it just so happened that in this case it was a highly skilled contract killer running loose, threatening to draw attention.
At the worst possible time.
41
“June?” Tallon asked. “Never heard of the guy.”
Pauling and Tallon had left Rodney to his own devices and on their way out, he reiterated that he was sure someone would be coming to kill him now that he’d talked.
Pauling didn’t agree. Rodney knew a name, and that was it. Something told her that ‘they’ were already well aware of what Rodney knew, and more importantly, what he didn’t know.
And if the man hadn’t been taken out into the swamp and fed to the alligators by now, he was probably going to be okay. She didn’t feel the need to let him off the hook, though.
They had left Rodney’s place, returned to the Wayfarer, and were now standing in the hallway outside Tallon’s room.
“The name rings a bell with me,” Pauling said to Tallon. “Charles June. I’ve heard of him. Or, should I say, read about him. I can’t exactly place where I saw it, but I think I know where to look.”
“How much of what Rodney said do you believe?” Tallon asked.
“All of it,” she said. “The guy was too scared and too stupid to hold anything back. Which is why he’s still alive. The most interesting part of that whole thing was the conversation between Fackrell and June. What the hell was that all about?”
“I wish I knew,” Tallon admitted. “And I wish Monica had known. Maybe I could have done a better job of protecting her.”
Pauling knew that’s what he was thinking. “That wasn’t your fault,” she said. “This thing is way bigger than anyone could have imagined.”
“Want to come in and talk about it?” Tallon said, nodding toward his room.
Pauling knew what he was really asking.
“Why don’t you get some sleep?” she said. Pauling could tell Tallon’s day had worn on him. Seeing what had been done to Monica, his conflicted feelings of guilt and anger, and then a multiple-hour questioning by the cops had all taken their toll.
“Okay,” he said.
“I’ve got to go back and re-read the FBI files. I just know I saw the name June in there somewhere,” she said.
They parted ways and Pauling let herself into her room. She was tired, too, but couldn’t resist digging into the information on her computer. But first, she changed into a T-shirt and baggy shorts, took her laptop into bed with her and skimmed the documents.
Any kind of government documents weren’t meant to be subjected to speed reading. But over the years, Pauling had become adept at skimming over all of the bureaucratic nonsense and ass-covering to get to the meat of the story.
She spent nearly an hour going back-and-forth across documents, simultaneously gleaning information and looking for a name.
It wasn’t until she was about to give up hope that she finally spotted what she was looking for.
Not in the actual documents, but in the list of people who’d requested them. It had been a last-ditch effort after she’d failed to find anything in their contents. In an act of desperation, she decided to look at a history of the documents themselves.
And buried deep within the access log she found multiple instances of Charles June.
Now I’ve got you, she thought.
Next, Pauling accessed a different part of the FBI’s database, the one that contained personnel records. This one was highly firewalled, but she could at least access names.
Her moment of triumph was short-lived.
There was no sign at all of a Charles June.
It was impossible.
How could that be?
How could Charles June be in the FBI’s database, clearly represented in the access log, but not anywhere else?
Nearly another fruitless hour of searching resulted in nothing.
Frustrated and more than a little bit ticked off, Pauling closed her laptop and checked her phone. She was hoping Holly Johnson, the FBI agent who’d been kidnapped by Borken and subsequently rescued by Reacher, had answered, but so far, there wasn’t a response.
Pauling brushed her teeth, climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling.
Life was strange. One minute, she was running a successful business in New York, the next minute she’s approached by a pair of questionable clients. Afterward, her loft is broken into, and then winds up in a run-down motel in the Outer Banks of North Carolina.
You never knew.
Like the folks at Lost Colony. They’re going about their business, and then at some point, they simply disappear.
Pauling thought about that.
American history. There was so much of it here, and in nearby Virginia.
And then something else occurred to her.
Langley, Virginia.
Home of the CIA.
Suddenly, Pauling knew exactly how Charles June had accessed the FBI files, even though he wasn’t an FBI agent.
She would bet her life on it.
He was a spook.
42
Tallon awoke the next morning, late.
He had been tired. A part of him was disappointed Pauling hadn’t taken him up on his offer, the other part was grateful. If she had, he would have been utterly exhausted. It would have been worth it, no question, but he’d needed the sleep.
Now, he felt reasonably refreshed.
The hotel had a free continental breakfast, so Tallon planned on getting some juice and coffee. He figured Pauling would already be up and about. They could have a quick breakfast together and strategize their day.
He quickly showered, got dressed and left the room.
In the hallway, a maid was pushing her cart in front of her and slowly making her way to a room. Tallon had been sure to take off his Do Not Disturb sign so his room could be cleaned. Who knows, he thought, maybe he and Pauling would be putting the bed to good use tonight.
Tallon smiled to himself. The last time they’d worked together had resulted in a romantic liaison. Quite memorable, in his opinion.
Tallon watched as the maid turned and was about to knock on the door next to Tallon’s, but her hand paused in mid-air.
Tallon spotted the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob and smiled at her.
That was close, he thought. People generally didn’t like to be awakened by hotel staff when they clearly asked not to be disturbed.
He passed her by and three things occurred to him in quick succession.
One, why had she stopped the cart in front of a door with the Do Not Disturb sign?
Two, she had no name tag.
And three, a visual popped into his mind of the woman who had been standing in the driveway outside his house, the night he’d shot the would-be sniper.
Tallon whirled, but he was a touch too late.
The knife entered his lower back and he felt a searing pain shoot up his spine. His spin move carried him away from the woman and he instantly realized that the knife hadn’t gone directly into the center of his back, from which she would have pulled the blade upward, aiming for his internal organs.
Instead, the knife cut sideways and then it was out.
His momentum carried him backward as the woman charged. She had clearly hoped to finish him with the knife, but now that he had survived the initial attack, she abruptly dropped the knife and instead pulled a pistol from behind her back.
It had a silencer attached.
The silencer helped Tallon because it added a few extra inches to the length of the gun which required a split second longer for the woman to bring it into line.
Tallon lashed out with his foot and kicked the gun just as it spat. A wad of cheap drywall exploded next to Tallon’s head and a second bullet plowed into the ceiling tile above him.
A small cloud of white dust and foam spilled into the air.
The woman stepped forward again as Tallon’s kick had knocked her off balance. He used his extended foot and hooked it behind the woma
n’s ankle and pulled.
She lost her balance and fell back, bringing the gun into line again. Tallon dove to the right, using the cart loaded with cleaning supplies as cover.
She brought the pistol down and fired again but he was already moving and he heaved against the cart, knocking it on top of his attacker. Rolls of toilet paper, bars of soap and towels rained down on the woman.
She rolled and Tallon leapt over the debris, landed on top of her. He pinned her left hand, with the gun, to the ground.
Another knife appeared, this one in her right hand. She swung it blindly backwards and rammed it into Tallon’s forearm.
He ignored the pain, and the grudging admiration he felt for her strength and agility.
She rolled underneath him and rather than fighting against her, he went with it and their momentum carried them both off the ground.
The gun was now free.
Tallon knew the woman had a choice.
She had to decide whether to use the gun or the knife.
Her decision was the same one Tallon would have made, and it was the one he had planned on.
She let go of the knife now embedded in Tallon’s arm, and brought her second hand toward the gun. Once her grip was re-established, she would pump off shots directly into Tallon’s chest.
She couldn’t miss.
So Tallon let her go.
He plucked the knife from his arm and jammed it forward, just beneath the woman’s Adam’s apple, and ripped it upward, splitting her throat wide open while knocking the gun wide.
One last round coughed from the pistol, and then a jet of hot blood shot from the woman’s throat, her jugular neatly severed.
With the last bit of life left in her, the woman tried to bring the gun to bear on Tallon, but he locked his hand on her arm and held it wide.
She couldn’t even pull the trigger again.
Tallon watched as the life drained from the woman’s face and just before the last bit of light was extinguished from her eyes, Tallon whispered to her.
“That was for Monica,” he said.
Her eyes rolled back in their sockets, and she died.
43
Pauling was, in fact, already awake. And had been for some time.
She’d gotten up, put on a pair of running shoes, and worked herself into a hard sweat running along the beach. The revelation she’d had about Charles June in the early morning hours had caused a restless few hours’ worth of sleep.
Her mind was working hard, churning through the possibilities and the hotel room had started to feel like solitary confinement. The beach, with its steady supply of fresh, cool air had refreshed her both physically and mentally.
Now, her run was over and she was cooling down by walking the last quarter mile or so back to the hotel.
It was already starting to warm up, and the breeze had died down. There were a few other walkers on the beach, and some dogs happily chasing the waves and then darting back when one got too close.
An older couple with a plastic bag hunted for seashells.
Pauling had gotten used to the emotion she felt when she saw a couple like the pair hunting for shells. Probably married for a few decades, grown children, even grandchildren.
And here she was, alone.
The question always hung there.
Why haven’t you found somebody? It was written plainly on the faces of so many people she knew, and even loved. Behind it, the meaning was clear. There must be something wrong with her.
But there wasn’t anything wrong with her. She’d been a hard-charging professional within the FBI, had some serious relationships, but one had never materialized as the one.
So here she was.
On a beach in North Carolina, making her way back to a tacky motel.
She almost had to laugh.
Her mind had already begun to plan her next steps in the investigation, but they were shelved when she reached the public boardwalk that enabled beach access.
Because when she climbed it, and followed the steps down to the narrow street that ran parallel to the ocean, the Wayfarer came into view in the distance.
That’s when she first saw the police cars with their lights flashing and heard the sound of an ambulance’s siren.
Pauling broke into a run.
“Tallon,” she whispered.
44
“Laying down on the job, I see,” Pauling said.
Tallon was in a hospital bed. No IV, just a bandage on his arm and another one around his waist.
“I played it up a little bit so they wouldn’t drag me down to the police station again,” he answered.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
Pauling had raced back to the hotel when she’d seen the police cars, and been able to piece together the gist of what happened. A woman dead, a man injured.
“Fine,” he answered. “No real damage, just lacerations, really. All stitched up and waiting to be released.”
“Who was she?”
Tallon filled her in on seeing the woman the first time at his house. He was careful not to mention the woman’s partner who he’d killed and buried in the desert. You never knew who was listening.
Pauling was about to respond when the doctor came in. She was tall, with a severe haircut and a nurse in tow.
“Mr. Tallon, all the tests look good,” she said. “I’m giving you some antibiotics to prevent infection and we’ll see you in a few weeks when the stitches need to come out. But other than that, as far as we’re concerned, you’re free to go.”
Pauling knew what the doctor meant. There were several police officers outside, waiting to continue their questioning.
“Great,” Tallon said. Although Pauling figured Tallon was the kind of guy who would take out his own stitches. Just a hunch.
The doctor left and the cops came in. They asked Pauling to leave so they could question Tallon in private. She spent two hours in the waiting room checking messages and trying to remember any contacts she had in the CIA. A few names came to mind, but they weren’t the right people to approach for information.
Eventually, one of the cops stopped by to let her know they were done with Tallon, for now. She went back in, helped him retrieve his gear, checked him out of the hospital and together they climbed into Pauling’s car, Tallon wincing slightly as he eased into the passenger seat.
Just then, her cell phone buzzed and she glanced at it. It was an email from Holly Johnson.
Pauling scanned it and let out a low whistle.
“What?”
“My hunch was correct,” she said. “Charles June is definitely CIA. Loosely in charge of surgical drone strikes at various spots in the world.”
Tallon looked ahead, through the windshield. An ambulance was leaving the hospital, no sirens flashing. Yet.
“So what does that mean?”
Pauling started the car to get the air conditioner going. Something was really bothering her. Missing information.
“Let me talk out loud,” she said.
Tallon was happy to let her do that. Pauling had a great voice. He could listen to it all day.
“Fackrell is involved in something with Charles June,” she said. “He gets cold feet, or changes his mind, or finds out he’s been lied to. So he goes on the run, presumably, and shows up on your doorstep with a slip of paper reading Operation Reacher. Now, part of the Borken case involved a plan to detonate a bomb as a key element of the secession plans. Which is interesting, now that we know June’s specialty is drone strikes.”
“Yeah, but we don’t have anything tying June to Borken, other than Fackrell.”
“Assume he is,” Pauling countered. “What would that mean?”
Tallon played along. “I guess it would mean that June shares some of Borken’s belief, and is maybe trying to carry on his work.”
“Maybe he recruited some military guys to do it,” Pauling said. “It’s a leap.”
“Yeah, several leaps,” Tallon pointed out.
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Pauling’s thoughts were colliding. A drone. Beau Borken. Fackrell. Monica. The Lost Colony. American history.
Suddenly, she gasped.
“What?” Tallon asked, concerned.
“Kill Devils.”
“Yeah, Fackrell and June, talking about killing devils,” Tallon said, recounting the conversation Rodney, the bartender, had overheard in the bar. “Terrorists, probably. Maybe terrorists talking about killing Americans. They call us devils. Infidels.”
“Not necessarily.”
Pauling put the car into gear and pulled out of the hospital in a hurry.
“Borken was all about America,” Pauling said. “A lot of ideology and symbolism in his speeches. I read the files. He was really big on symbolic gestures.”
“And?”
“Kill Devils isn’t an operation. It’s a place. Kill Devil Hills.”
It dawned on Tallon. “The Wright Brothers. The first flight.”
Pauling slapped the steering wheel with both hands.
“Yes! It’s perfect, don’t you see? If June wanted to complete Borken’s legacy in a big, symbolic way, with a drone strike, the perfect place to launch it would be Kill Devil Hills. Even better, the very spot where the Wright brothers flew for the first time. Why else are we here? In nowhere, North Carolina?”
Tallon had already plugged in the location on his GPS.
“We can be there in less than thirty minutes,” he said.
Pauling’s response was to mash the accelerator to the floor.
45
The best solutions were always the ones that appeared on their own.
The problem of Kate, for instance. Charles June had gone back and forth on how best to handle it. Sending Logan and Gina in to dispatch her was a possibility, but that could’ve gotten messy. He had begun to believe that the best way to do it was for him to take matters into his own hands. Schedule a meet with her, and then kill her.
Ultimately, it was a decision he didn’t have to make, which are the best kind.