by R. A. McGee
As with most soldiers in a combat theater, his time was filled with combat and strife and things he’d rather forget. Consistent throughout his entire war experience, however, was his ability to manipulate situations to his advantage.
So while McHenry had sat there in his ill-fitting suit and fresh battle wound, his mind had been at work. Despite being personally invited to apply for the job by a CIA spook he’d worked with in Vietnam, he didn’t want to take any chances on losing out.
McHenry decided to even the field.
He started up a conversation with the two men, about where they’d been and where they were going.
When asked why he was applying for the CIA analyst position, McHenry told the men that he was doing it to make the FBI jealous.
“See, I just got done interviewing for the Feeb and they’re paying much more money. They promised me a shorter selection period as well. To be honest, that’s the job I really want. This CIA thing is a backup, just in case. I’ll tell you what, I was fortunate to even get in.” McHenry then looked at his watch. “They were only having open applications today, and they were stopping in about an hour. Glad I got it out of the way.”
The two other men had looked at each other, then leaned into McHenry, asking more questions about the FBI job.
McHenry spun a yarn about the FBI—about the benefits and the extra pay and the G-car they offered as a perk of the job.
Not long after that, one of the other men excused himself to the restroom, never to return.
The other man waited until the last possible moment, accounting for a trip across town, and then said he needed to get something from his vehicle.
McHenry had sat with a smile in the empty waiting room. He’d greeted the interviewer with a smile and firm handshake, and pleaded ignorance as to where the other men had gotten off to.
Shaking the memories from his head, McHenry brought himself back to the present, his hip flaring in pain, his mind racing with this new Clark problem. How had he found out?
McHenry had assumed that Clark would go to Mexico and cause chaos. That was what he was good at. He had no doubt that when the man code-named Dust was done south of the border, there would be a pile of dead bodies in his wake.
In reality, McHenry knew most of the cartel men had it coming, and he wasn’t going to cry over their deaths. But he’d never expected Clark to find anything that connected McHenry to Samantha’s death. Not in a million years.
And to think, all this time I’ve been worried about Miri finding out that Butterfield isn’t the one who set her up. I have one hell of a much bigger problem than that.
Beyond disgusted with himself for being caught up in what should have been a relatively simple con, McHenry was also disappointed to find that he was pretending not to know the simplest solution to his problem.
While he didn’t want to acknowledge it, he knew there was only one thing he could do. There was no chance of bringing Clark back in from the edge, of convincing him that he had the wrong idea. The man was too smart for that, and the phone call was a damning piece of evidence.
McHenry knew if he didn’t act, and act soon, he’d join the scores of the dead in Mexico.
The old man struggled to his feet and limped over to the side of the desk, reaching down to the floor and pulling up the phone he’d knocked down. He placed it right side up and set the receiver back on the cradle. He sat, taking a deep breath and slicking his hair back. He pushed the button to dial an outside line, then dialed a number he knew by heart.
“Hello?”
“This is Jack McHenry, executive director of the Blackthorn Asset Group.”
“Good afternoon, Director McHenry. Can you please provide me your pin?”
“XAT552150. My password is Daedalus, before you ask. Can we get on with this?”
“Yes, sir,” the woman said. “How can I help you, Director McHenry?”
“I need you to revoke one of my guy’s clearance.”
“Clearance?”
“Yes. Revoke all of it.”
“We can do that. Would you like an alert placed into the databases?”
“Absolutely. He should be considered extremely dangerous, and a threat to national security.”
“Understood. Would you like to issue a termination order?”
McHenry paused for a moment.
“Director McHenry? Would you like me to input a termination order for your asset?”
“Yes, damn it. He should be killed on sight.”
“Understood. Where would you like this sent?”
“Everywhere. The Agency and the Bureau. Homeland, too. Upload a lookout into TECS and IAFIS. All the entry databases, foreign and domestic. Interpol, MI-5, Mossad, and everybody else across the pond.”
“Understood. Sir, as you know, this line is monitored for verbal proof of intent and action. I need you to say it, one time for the record.”
McHenry took a deep breath. “I want to disavow Blackthorn asset, Czerny Clark.”
Thirty-Nine
The driver of the beat-up, yellow SUV was an African man. The scent of the stuff he used in his dreadlocks was pungent, and Clark had to crack the window. “Where to?”
Clark gave him the directions and added, “If you do it without talking, I’ll double the fare.”
The driver didn’t breathe another word. Clark watched the terrain change as they drove from the airport to a more suburban neighborhood. He pointed to a vague stopping point and paid the cabbie what he owed him, extra for his silence included, and the man drove away. Clark was standing at a bus stop and he sat down, hands in his pockets.
Although it was late afternoon, the sky was clear, and it was still plenty bright to see his surroundings. Still, Clark knew that he was in a position of disadvantage: he had no weapon, and Keever could show up at any moment. He planned to reverse the odds immediately.
Walking down the street, he doubled back on his route twice before cutting across the road and walking into the Metro station. The Metro was the DC area’s version of a subway, and with a little deft maneuvering, he could get anywhere in the city he needed.
Clark headed down the stairs and swiped his SmarTrip card to get past the gate and access the crowded platform. The scrum of people was so thick, he couldn’t see anything around him, so he kept his head down and slipped deeper into the crowd, all the while waiting to feel a knife in his ribs that he couldn’t see coming.
The train to the right was a connection to the red line. Clark stayed in a group of people onboarding the rail car, and stood there as the recorded overhead voice chimed, informing him to watch himself as the doors closed.
He was still as a statue, ready for anything, until the car began its journey. Then he nudged his way through the crowd, sneaking a peek at every passenger’s face, looking for a big, dumb grin.
No one had a smile that matched Keever’s.
Moving to the end of the car, Clark hung on to a strap dangling from a metal pole, and looked out the window, watching the familiar District sights go by.
It took more time than he liked, but eventually the Metro pulled into the stop he needed: Union Station. Clark disembarked and stood on the platform for a moment as the train pulled away. The current of people going places parted around him. He watched the people, looking for signs he was being followed.
There were none.
Clark headed up the escalator and into the great hall of Union Station.
The place had been captured perfectly in many movies. A huge open area, with black and white tiles, was capped off by a barrel-vaulted ceiling, which was supported by thick columns along the walls. Just under the ceiling were statues of centurion soldiers, a project from over a century ago.
Clark didn’t like it. It wasn’t that it didn’t look impressive or stately, because it did. But Union Station averaged thirty thousand passengers a day, and the number of people around made it almost impossible to see every possible threat coming. That, coupled with the fact that the o
n-site security was everywhere, made it one of his least comfortable places to be. It was, however, closer than any other cache he had, and his need to arm himself outweighed any other factor.
So he pressed on.
At the end of the great hall was a private locker rental company. Clark fished a claim slip out of his wallet, then walked past two uniformed security guards and up to the counter. A thin, tow-headed young man with glasses was texting on his phone.
Clark stood patiently for a moment, waiting to be noticed.
The young man was still texting when Clark rapped on the counter. “Hey, chief. Can I get my bag?”
The young man looked up, nose wrinkled in disdain. He pointed to his name tag. “My name’s Teddy, not chief.”
“Fair enough. Teddy, can I please get my bag?”
“Ticket, please.”
Clark handed the ticket over and Teddy accepted it, scrutinizing it as if it could be counterfeit.
“Your ticket is over ninety days old. We routinely purge items after that long. Your stuff probably isn't in here.”
“I have a deal with Oscar, the manager. I’ve paid for plenty of rental time. Why don’t you go and check.”
“Oscar no longer works at this location.”
“Really? He’d been here for years. Can I speak to the new manager?”
“You’re speaking to him.”
“Congrats on your promotion. Now can you go and look for my bag?”
“Sir, I’m telling you it isn’t going to be back there.” Teddy crumpled up Clark’s claim tag and dropped it in the trash can, then returned to his phone.
“Really?” Clark said. He looked around. The guards had moved further away and had their backs turned, so he leaned in across the chipped Formica countertop. “Here’s the thing, Teddy. I know Oscar held my bag for me. No doubt about it. So if you don’t go back there and find my shit, I’m going to make sure you sing soprano for the rest of your life. Savvy?”
Teddy’s eyes grew wide, and his voice trembled. “You can’t… you can’t talk to me like that.”
“I just did. Now go get my bag.”
Looking left and right, Teddy decided to go to the back with no further comment. Clark watched him go, then straightened up from the counter, wondering if his bag had actually been disposed of.
Moments later, Teddy came back with a small rolling suitcase. “It appears I made an error. Your bag was in a locker that we haven’t purged yet. Please accept my apologies.”
“Give me my bag, stupid.”
Teddy handed Clark his bag and, once it was out of his hands, took a step back from the counter. Teddy looked to the right, toward the security guard. “There’s no need to behave like that, sir.”
“Just shut up, kid.”
“I don’t appreciate that type of language,” Teddy said, his voice escalating. “There’s no need to be belligerent.”
“Stop doing that,” Clark said in a low voice.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Now Teddy was practically shouting.
“You’re a real asshole.” Out of the corner of his eye, Clark saw the security guards take notice and begin walking toward the counter. Clark turned and took a couple of steps away, carrying his small bag horizontally by the side handle.
“Sir, stop for a second.”
“I think he said he had drugs in the suitcase,” Teddy said loudly.
“Sir, hold on.”
Clark stopped walking and sighed, turning to face the two guards. One was a thin black man wearing shiny black boots, and the other, a tall, overweight white man, who looked like he was straight out of central casting for a farmer. Both men wore black pants and a white button-up shirt with a patch on the left sleeve of the private security company they worked for. “What’s up, guys?”
“Sir, is there an issue here?” the black man said. His name tag read Harald.
“I’m just getting on my way.”
“Hansen,” Harald said, “find out what that kid was squawking about.”
The big farmer type walked over to the counter, toward Teddy.
“Look, I have somewhere to be. Unless you guys are planning to cuff me up, I need to take off.”
“Sir, you’re on private property. We have every right to detain you for further questioning. Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” Harald said.
Hansen came ambling back. “Kid says he bragged he had drugs in the suitcase.”
Clark looked at Teddy, who had a smirk of satisfaction on his face.
“Sir, can we take a look in the bag?” Harald asked.
“No. Sorry, fellas, but I really have to go.”
Hansen stepped in front of Clark and barred his way as he turned to leave.
“It’s like that?” Clark said.
“’Fraid so,” Harald said.
Clark moved over to a small table and set his bag down. He unzipped the large pocket and opened it flat on the table, then took a step back so the men could see into his bag.
Harald leaned over the table and looked into a bag filled with clothes. He fished through the main compartment and shook his head at Hansen. “No drugs in there.”
“Of course not,” Clark said. “Come on, be real.”
Harald stepped over to Clark. “I’m very sorry, sir, but we just had to be sure. I hope you understand. Hansen, close the bag up.”
“That’s okay. I’d rather do it,” Clark said. “I’m embarrassed enough as it is.”
“No, really, we don’t mind. Hansen?”
The big man picked up the flap to close it, but paused as he did. He scrunched up his face as he opened and closed the lid several times, then patted the outside flap of the bag as if he were looking for something. “Kinda heavy. Something inside the lid flap?”
Clark exhaled slowly. “Yeah. My gun.”
Forty
As Harald was forming words, Clark was in motion. He pivoted on his left foot, hitting the black man underneath the chin with an uppercut that knocked him off his feet.
He covered the six feet to his bag barely a second later, and Hansen was now coming at him. His inexperience showed, as instead of pulling his big revolver and pointing it at Clark, the big man swung an overhand right at him. Clark blocked it easily, just as he’d shown Mateo several days earlier.
Hansen paused for a moment, unable to string another move together in time. Clark didn’t have that problem.
He thrust a powerful knee into the security guard's midsection, then punched him on the side of the neck when he doubled over. Hansen dropped to his knees, reaching for both his gut and his throat. Clark fired another knee, this time into his face, and the man sprawled out on the black and white tile.
Clark stepped over to his bag, quickly zipping it closed and yanking it from the table. He briefly considered smashing Teddy's face off the counter where he stood, dumbfounded, but decided time was of the essence. Union Station had hundreds of cameras and no doubt someone, somewhere, had seen what he’d done.
Stepping over the unconscious Hansen, Clark walked past Harald and jogged toward the exit. Once he got outside, he turned left down Union Station drive and sprinted until he saw a small wall, separating him from the ground fifteen feet below him. The ground was littered with rail tracks for the Metro, and Clark moved down the wall until he saw the top of a parked Metro car, its shiny silver roof reflecting in the lights of the railway. He vaulted over the wall, and down onto the Metro car.
Clark looked left and right, making sure no trains were coming, then jumped over the tracks until he came to a small service walkway. He ran along this until he got to a chain link fence that separated him from a private road.
He scaled the fence, the metal cold on his hands, the wound in his shoulder throbbing, the familiar feel of fresh blood trickling down his arm from his gunshot wound.
Once he hit the ground on the other side, Clark opened the pull handle and walked at a normal pace, resisting the urge to look behind him.
>
He came to the rear entrance of the Kaiser Permanente Medical Center and walked through a set of motion-activated doors, the wheels of his suitcase clicking on the tile floor. He continued until he came to a door with a pictograph of a man and woman in blue, the universal symbol for the restroom. Clark stepped in and locked the door behind him.
He clicked on the light and paused for a moment to catch his breath.
His right sleeve was soaked in blood, and it was running down his arm. He pulled off the T-shirt that he’d worn since the day before and flipped it inside out, using it to wipe up as much blood as he could, then threw it in the trashcan. He turned the faucet on scalding hot and waited for the water to catch up, readying a handful of paper towels.
Once the water was ready, he soaked the paper towels and pressed them to the wound, putting pressure, trying to stop some of the bleeding. After several cycles, the blood had all but stopped.
Clark took a quick look, confirming that he’d popped two stitches, and dried his shoulder off. From his bag he pulled out a fresh, long-sleeved black shirt. Then he located the hidden zipper that accessed a secret compartment in his luggage. He often used compartments just like this to bring in things that customs agents would frown on in other countries. When he didn’t fly private, he always kept the things he’d need hidden away in compartments like this. No one had ever looked in one of them.
No one except Hansen the rent-a-cop.
Clark pulled out a Glock 26, the sub-compact version of the Glock 17 that he usually favored. He picked two magazines out of the hidden spot, using one to load his pistol and slipping the other in his pocket.
He also pulled out a passport, in a name that wasn’t even close to his, and a small stack of money.
He’d hidden several caches like this at various places in both the DC area and in other big cities. He had always wanted to be sure that if he needed to go out on his own, he wouldn’t be completely hamstrung with no money or weapon.