by R. A. McGee
“Who knows, maybe you’ll learn to like it.”
Clark shook his head, and started scanning the area. Even if Keever were here, finding him would be like finding a piece of broccoli on your front lawn. He pushed aside a temporary lightheaded feeling and focused his attention on every face he walked past.
Seventy
The train ride had calmed McHenry. The sips from his flask had helped with that, as well as quieting the pain in his hip. After all these years, he’d begun to think about actually letting the doctors operate and clean out the shrapnel that was causing so much friction in the joint. He’d held out until now.
He’d always told himself that he left it because he was tough enough to handle the pain, to live with it and make it his unwanted companion. But deep down, he knew he was lying.
The mission that had left him with his bad hip—the one that had resulted in one of the many medals in his office—had come at the cost of several good men. If they couldn’t be alive any longer, the least he could do was be a little uncomfortable in their memory.
McHenry flipped the phone open and closed as he looked out the window. Things weren’t shaking out the way he’d wanted them to. While he had originally wanted to get everyone back alive, to keep his people intact, he knew it wasn’t going to happen. Keever had made sure of that, with his kidnapping of Lucy Gordon and his ineptitude in eliminating Clark.
Still, her death would have served a purpose. It would have eliminated anyone who knew what he’d done—knew that it was him who was dealing with Russian criminals, setting up a senator’s nephew for treason, and giving up one of his own people to hostile actors in a foreign country.
But Gordon was still alive. This was a bit disconcerting, but it was a problem that could be handled later. Now that the hacker kid from Hershey and the thumb drive evidence from Butterfield were both contained, he could wait to figure out what to do with Lucy.
The real issue was Czerny Clark.
McHenry had hoped to never have to deal with him finding out about Samantha, but this was the reality. Clark knew McHenry was responsible, and since Keever had been too inept to kill him, Clark would come for him eventually.
McHenry wasn’t stupid. He’d known there was a slim chance of Keever beating Clark when he’d accepted Keever’s idea.
Some chance was better than no chance.
Add in the fact that the Blackthorn contingent had failed to subdue Clark as well, and McHenry knew he was out of choices. He could wait, hope that Clark slipped up and got caught somewhere. That some Podunk agency somewhere would find him and arrest him. Then he’d be shipped off to a black holding site and forgotten about. He’d never have a chance to come for McHenry.
The problem was, that might take months or years. McHenry knew he was living on borrowed time.
He flipped the phone open and dialed one of the few numbers in the recently called log.
After several clicks and whirls, a robust voice with the hint of a Russian accent answered. “Ulysses?”
“Hello, Ivan. How are things in the great snowy east?”
“You know, not so bad. I have plenty of things to keep me warm. A great fire, plenty of female companionship. I am not so bad off.”
“All the time I spent chasing you around Europe, I should have been following your retirement plan. I’d probably be better off.”
“You should have just let me kill you. That would have saved you any future problems.”
McHenry knew that Ivan Petrovsky was only partially joking.
“Have you thought any more about that device of yours we captured?”
“Last time you call me, I say I might want it back. Now? I’m sure I don’t. I’ve moved on.”
“And the other thing?” McHenry said, an upward lilt in his voice.
There was silence on the phone for several moments. “Your man? The name I want?”
“Da,” McHenry said, imitating a Russian accent.
“Do not play games with me.”
“Do I ever play games?”
“You used to. Remember when you blew up a building on top of me? That was fun.”
“I suppose that makes us even, since you shot me.”
“Not quite. That building hurt,” Petrovsky said with a laugh. He stopped laughing, his voice deadly serious. “You are willing to tell me who he is?”
“I’m considering it.”
“Well, you need to be sure. I will pay you well for that information. He stopped my deal at the zoo in Switzerland, he is the one who ruined my Costa Rica arrangement. I had much money invested. I would like to… talk with him.”
“And then?” McHenry said.
“Then what?”
“You kill him.”
“Of course I kill him. Eventually. My men will take their time with him. Our conversations will take weeks.”
“How soon?” McHenry said.
“What?”
“How soon will you come for him?”
“Not sure,” Petrovsky said. “I have some men in the States right now, but if he’s as dangerous as I’ve learned, I may want to send a few more specialists.”
“I hope they’re better than the last one,” McHenry said. “Sergey didn’t fare too well.”
“I have better,” Petrovsky said. “So? I can wire money to your account. I’ll send it right now if you give me his name.”
“You get your guys inbound as soon as possible. I want him gone. Deal?”
“Of course,” Petrovsky said.
“Until I verify the money arrived, all I can give you is his last name,” McHenry said.
“Fine, fine, what is it?”
“It’s Clark. The man codenamed Dust is named Clark.”
Seventy-One
The third shot of bottom-shelf vodka had done the trick for Clark. Its healing properties hadn’t fixed his aching body, but had temporarily reduced his awareness that he even had a body. He found that vodka in reasonable quantities rarely got him drunk, but instead was a cure-all salve for his psyche.
His third lap around the club hadn’t produced any results. He followed Lucy as she wandered back and forth, from the floor up to the stage, then down a small hallway where the bathrooms were. The pair had even poked their head in the kitchen and surprised a work crew of Salvadorians, evidenced by their flag bandanas and the music on the cheap boombox on top of the stainless steel working area.
The only place they hadn’t checked was the private area, which was down a long, brick-sided hallway. The area was surprisingly quiet, given the maelstrom of music in the main area.
Lucy walked up to the bouncer, whose shoulders were nearly as wide as the entryway. “What’s back there?”
“Everything from here on’s for VIPs only.” The bouncer had an earpiece in his ear, a heavy Maglite held casually in his hand.
“Any chance we can take a look?”
The man looked at the pair of them, laughed, and shook his head. He ignored them, putting his hand to his earpiece and then mumbling something into the lapel microphone.
Clark considered making the man move, but thought better of it. He pulled Lucy away from the entryway.
“Listen, let’s cut our losses. It was a wild-ass guess that he’d be here. We’re never this lucky.”
Lucy’s shoulders sagged, defeated. “I just thought maybe we could find this bastard. For Miri and the kid from the trailer, you know?”
“For you,” Clark said in commiseration.
A member of the security team brushed by him and hustled past the VIP blockade. Clark watched without saying anything, and moments later, two more men hustled by. The big bouncer at the entry stepped out of the way, his hand to his ear, obviously listening to some radio traffic.
Clark watched the men run down the hallway and tapped Lucy on the shoulder, pointing after them. “Must be a hell of a fight if all that beef has to go get involved.”
“You don’t think…?”
“Nah. But now I’m curious. Stay clos
e.”
Clark started down the hallway. As he went, a steady stream of people straggled past him in various stages of dress.
There were doorways on each side of the hallway, offset from each other. The doorways were covered by different-colored curtains. Clark peeked inside the first, seeing a bed covered with what looked like velvet sheets, red paint covering the walls.
There was a muffled scream, then the popping of a silenced weapon. It echoed off the brick walls.
“Was that a—”
“Yeah,” Clark said, moving deeper into the VIP area. “Come on.”
The next room had thick rubber sheets, shiny with oil, for a floor. The room after that had a kiddie pool and dozens of ping-pong balls in it.
Clark peeked his head into the next room, slightly moving the curtains. The room had a polished concrete floor and, in the center, an old-school stockade, like the colonists would have put a thief in.
Trapped in the stockade, bent over at the waist and facing the door, was a pretty brunette, completely nude. Her hair was in her face and she was screaming. Off to the side, the big bouncer stood, his hands raised in the air.
On the floor were two other bouncers, lying still, blood seeping out of them.
Behind the woman stood Keever, one hand leveling a pistol at the bouncer, his other hand holding a wooden paddle.
“Get back!” Keever brought the paddle crashing into the woman’s bare ass, then threw it at the bouncer. “Do it!”
Clark popped his head out from the curtain. “It’s Keever.”
“Are you shitting me?” Lucy whispered back.
“Stay here,” Clark mouthed. He unholstered his Glock and stood next to the wall. He breathed deeply, smelling sweat and stale beer, wishing it was a cigarette filling his lungs.
As he parted the curtain, there were three muffled pops. Clark pushed on, and was met with a surprise. Keever was no longer behind the stockade. He had come closer to the curtain, and had shot the bouncer at near point-blank range.
Now Keever was raising the pistol at Clark’s face.
Clark thrust his left hand out, grabbing the silencer at the end of Keever’s pistol. It was hot from use. Keever shot one more round into the floor, the ricochet and spalling peppering into Clark’s lower leg. The silencer grew even hotter.
Holding tight to the front of the weapon, Clark jerked Keever to the left to move him off balance. Instead, Keever let go of his pistol and charged Clark, pushing him toward the wall and sending him off-balance over the dead body of a bouncer. Clark sprawled out on the floor, left hand holding Keever’s pistol, right hand occupied with his own Glock.
He pushed himself to his feet and out the curtain, after the fleeing Keever.
But by the time Clark made it to the hallway, Keever had stopped running. He had his hand buried in the back of Lucy’s neck, and a nasty folding knife pushed firmly against her throat.
Seventy-Two
“Let her go,” Clark said.
“Why the actual fuck would I do that? Do you even listen to half the things that fall out of your head?” Keever was wild-eyed. The lighting in the hallway was dim but steady, unlike the pulsating illumination on the floor of the club.
“You’re gonna let her go because you don’t want me to end your miserable life.”
“For some reason, I think my chances of that are worse if I let her go.” Keever turned and looked behind him, keeping the knife point at Lucy’s throat. He stepped slowly backward.
Clark dropped Keever’s pistol, and aimed his own at the bridge of Keever’s nose. He had a decent shot and was taking the slack out of the trigger. Then the spins started.
Clark cursed to himself, wondering why he was still having them. Could have been the dehydration. Could have been a fever from the infection setting in, since he’d forgotten to take the antibiotics. He’d have to mea culpa to Linda the nurse and admit that while she still had it as a nurse, he was a terrible patient.
He focused on the front sight of his pistol, then watched it split in three. He tried to guess which was the real one.
Keever kept pulling the remarkably stoic Lucy Gordon ever backward.
“I said are you listening to me?” Keever spat out.
“No,” Clark admitted.
“I said I owe you. All those years ago. This damn eye. When your boss man gave me the job, I couldn’t believe my luck, you stumbling into my path. Now I’m starting to think I can’t kill you.” Keever looked around again, stepping carefully over an extremely long black rubber phallus on the floor.
“You shouldn’t have taken the job.”
“First, it was just this chicky here,” he said, jostling Lucy. “Watch her and see where she goes. Then the old man lost his shit when I said we were going to Pennsylvania. Said I needed to make sure there was no evidence in the nerd-boy’s trailer. He didn’t want me to hurt the girl, but fuck ’im, right?”
Clark edged forward, matching Keever’s speed, not letting him get Lucy any further away than she already was.
“Then your boss decides I should take you out too. Funny enough, I was going to do that anyway. Call it a perk of the job. Honestly? You have always been so dumb and lucky it makes me sick. How did you even get her off the pressure explosive?”
“It didn’t even go off,” Clark lied. “I dragged her off and it made a little fizzle noise and then nothing. You’re such a loser, you can’t even kill me when you have the drop on me.”
Keever roared, squeezing Lucy until her face was red. A near-constant stream of obscenities spilled from his mouth.
“You always were bad at the job, Lefty.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“That’s why I’ll always win. You’re just worthless.”
Keever pulled one last time, then looked to his left. He changed directions and slid Lucy into the kitchen, behind the tip of his knife.
Clark followed, careful not to trip on the rubberized mat that ran over the threshold between the two spaces. The cooking team paused, their eyes wide, apparently trying to process what they were seeing.
Keever pulled Lucy down the alleyway of the prep area. He was so focused on Clark that he didn’t notice Lucy palm a small paring knife from the prep counter.
“So what’s your plan, Lefty? You gonna make me walk after you all night?” Still no clear shot on the man.
“No, no, I’ve been thinking about this wrong. You need to stop.” Keever slid further backward, pausing next to the fryer station.
Clark continued at the pace he was going.
“I said stop,” Keever screamed, and pushed the knife into Lucy’s neck. At the same time, she buried the paring knife into Keever’s thigh. His hands reflexively went to his leg and Lucy slid down the front of Keever’s body.
Still unsure which sight post was the real one, Clark didn’t want to take a chance with Lucy so close. He charged Keever, jumping over Lucy and tackling the man. The two men sprawled onto the kitchen floor, slamming into a stacked pile of bags of potatoes. Clark hit Keever over and over, bouncing his head off the kitchen’s tile floor, feeling the structure of his adversary’s face change underneath his fist.
A white stab of pain washed over Clark. Keever had pulled the paring knife from his own thigh and stuck it into Clark’s side. With no way of knowing Clark’s ribs were already battered, he nevertheless had great dumb-luck aim.
As Clark grabbed at the knife, Keever crawled back on the heels of his hands and ass and staggered to his feet. He slammed into a stainless steel cart and lurched toward the back door.
Clark was on his feet in an instant and after the man, careful to keep his footing on the blood-slicked tiles. He slammed through the exit door a fraction of a second after Keever and caught up to him in the cobblestone alleyway. Clark bulldogged Keever into an industrial dumpster and landed on top of him.
In the bit of moonlight that peeked its way into the alley, Clark could see that Keever’s face was pulped. Enraged, Clark slid his left thum
b into Keever’s eye socket, digging it in as far as he could.
Keever came to life underneath Clark’s assault, screaming and kicking. “No!”
Clark dug until he was satisfied that Keever would never see again. A last gift to the sadistic man, one Clark wished Keever could live with forever. A token of Clark’s true feelings.
But there was only one way everything would end.
Left thumb still knuckle-deep in Keever, Clark slipped his right hand into his pocket, pulled his Spyderco and flicked it open. He stuck it into the front of Keever’s neck, sawing back and forth until the man underneath him stopped moving.
Slick with Keever’s blood, Clark stood unsteadily to his feet, and then leaned against the dumpster. The air was foul, thick with refuse from the container, and in that moment, Clark wanted a cigarette more than almost anything.
Almost.
He reached down and pulled Keever into a sitting position. In one smooth movement, Clark hoisted him up and into the dumpster. He slammed the lid down and limped back into the kitchen.
The Salvadorian music played loudly, a noise he hadn’t noticed moments ago over the pounding of the blood in his ears. Breathing through his mouth, Clark looked for the kitchen crew, but didn’t see them. Figuring they had fled the violence before them, Clark turned the corner to the prep alleyway and found two of them on the floor next to Lucy.
One was holding a rag to her throat and the other was speaking quickly into a smartphone, obviously relaying directions to a 911 operator.
Clark knelt beside Lucy, pushing the cook out of the way and taking the rag in his own hands. He propped Lucy’s head on his lap, applying pressure to her wound.
Her eyes fluttered open and looked around before they focused on him. He smiled and nodded at the girl. His hand found hers, and he held her until the paramedics arrived and took over.
Then he disappeared.
Seventy-Three
James Joyce McHenry made his way back to the small guest bungalow that the treatment facility offered to overnight guests. His grandson’s graduation had gone off without a hitch. He had even been chosen as the biggest inspiration by his fellow rehab residents.