The Eyes of Others
Page 35
“Boston’s dead!” Tara shouts, clutching the folded flag against her chest. “What did you sacrifice?”
“My friend and my career. Remsen’s dead and I resigned from the FBI.”
“So you’re not part of this cover-up going on?”
“I left because of it.”
Boston almost didn’t get buried with military honors. Many of the powers in D.C. are content to label him the mole and brag to the media that the threat has been eliminated. That opinion is being encouraged by members of Congress, especially Senator Ludwick, who don’t want the embarrassing truth about Gina Attison getting out into the open.
“Is the FBI still looking for her?”
“I don’t know. If they are, it’s being done very quietly. Finding Gina Attison isn’t a priority. Any way you slice it, the mole in the DIA is gone, and that’s all they really care about.”
The three of them look at each other and I know something’s up. It’s the same body language perpetrators use when being questioned by the authorities and are searching for what to say and what not to. Now I realize why, and what the sudden rush is to get out of Arlington National Cemetery.
“You know where she is, don’t you?”
Louisiana and Maryland just stare back at me, but Tara is far more innocent than they are. She wears the answer all over her face. I give the three of them a smile.
“Someday you’ll have to tell me how you figured it out.”
“You’re not going to stop us?” Maryland asks meekly.
“I told you, I’m not with the bureau anymore. I have no reason or authority to stop you from doing anything. Even if I did have one, I wouldn’t. No, I’m going to the private sector. They’re always looking for a man with my skill set, right, Louisiana?”
All he can do is grin. He knows exactly what I’m referring to. I turn the key in the ignition and start my vehicle. I reach into the pocket of my suit jacket and retrieve my sunglasses, taking a moment to inspect them for smudges before sliding them on my face.
“Everybody wants this thing buried,” I continue. “It’s the only reason you all aren’t in prison right now. Explanations for the explosions were provided to the Metro PD and they were told to drop it. Nobody wants your defense lawyers running around town asking questions about this incident. There are limits to your get out of jail free card, though, so you need to stay off the radar.”
I put my SUV in reverse and turn my body to look out the rear window. I said what I needed to say. I start to back up when Louisiana grabs the door of the car, causing me to hit the brakes.
“Are you buryin’ this too?”
“I told you before. I only wanted redemption. In the end, I didn’t get it. If you know where she is, I trust you’ll do what’s needed to get it for me.”
I’m satisfied that he, of all people, would get my point and I grin. He returns it and starts to climb into their car. There is just one more piece of business I almost forgot to attend to.
“Hey, Louisiana, there’s one more thing. Don’t think your finding Gina makes things right between us. We’re still going to have a chat about my car someday soon, you and I.”
I back up out of the space and point my car towards the exit. I offer the three of them a quick salute and head out of the cemetery. What lies beyond is a fresh start. When I make it, it will be in a new city and with a clean conscience.
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~ Chapter 88 ~
Gina attison
Two days later …
I catch my reflection in the glass of the refrigerator where the drinks are kept. I stare at it a moment before running my fingers through my hair. It’s going to be tough getting used to being a blonde. It just doesn’t suit my personality. Neither does the short haircut. I swore I would never cut my long hair. So much for that plan.
I didn’t need to get drastic in changing my appearance. Nobody knows me here, and they’re not glued to their televisions and mobile devices in this remote part of West Virginia like they are in the more urban parts of the country. Regardless, it was prudent to change things up a little just in case the authorities decided to start a massive manhunt for me. So far, one hasn’t materialized.
That development is not surprising, really. I was on the staff of the chairman of Congress’s most important and powerful intelligence oversight committees. I worked for that committee for years before that. To avoid the embarrassment of the entire Senate for operating right under their noses, they’re not going to be eager to go public with the truth. They’ll exert considerable pressure on the FBI to keep quiet. Such is the way of bureaucracies, and the reason I despise everyone associated with them.
I bring the small basket of goodies to the clerk behind the register and pay the bill using the cash Boston and I had kept in the emergency fund at our house. Now I am wishing I hadn’t given him so much when I met him in that mall parking lot. I didn’t think I would be here long enough for the provisions I purchased when I first arrived after fleeing Washington a few days ago to become exhausted. I was hoping my contact would have provided me with the papers I need to leave the country by now, but unfortunately such things can’t be rushed. He said maybe a week, and that’s what it’s turning out to be.
The junk food I can get here won’t sustain me long, but it shouldn’t really need to. Despite the security the remote vista provides and the blissful anonymity I have in this remote part of the country, I expect his call any time now and shouldn’t to have to stay here for more than another day.
The cabin I shared with Boston, buried deep in the Appalachian Mountains, isn’t known to anyone. There’s no paper trail for the feds to follow its ownership back to us. It was a secret only we shared, and that was the way I had always intended to keep it. His serendipitous arrival at our house, and subsequent demise afterwards, guaranteed it would stay that way. I know he would never have told Maryland or Louisiana about its existence. My biggest fear was that he’d get captured and tell the FBI about this place. Now I can be sure he took that knowledge to the grave with him. One of the universal truths in life is that dead men don’t talk.
I swing open the door to the store, carrying my sack of groceries in one hand and tugging at the zipper on my light jacket to protect against slight chill in the air leftover from last night’s rain. As I approach my vehicle, I marvel at the peaceful serenity of this area.
A shot rings out from afar and its report echoes off the mountainsides and down the valley. I freeze in place as a flock of ducks flies off from a nearby pond, screaming their warnings, and they climb in altitude. Hunters. So much for the peaceful serenity. I scan the area looking for any threat to me anyway, taking a deep breath when I realize I’m just being paranoid. There’s nothing to be afraid of.
I move to my vehicle, pop the rear door, and set the bag in the roomy cargo compartment. I’ve had the early-1990s’ Jeep Cherokee parked at a long-term vehicle storage facility twenty minutes from where Boston and I lived for over a year now. Purchased with cash from a seller advertising on Craig’s List, I managed to keep its existence a secret from him knowing this day might come. Its fading paint, scratches, dents, and overall age don’t make it much to look at, but it fits in well here in West Virginia.
I close the rear door, pull my keys out of my pocket, and climb into the driver’s seat. I think back to Louisiana. I bet that crazy bastard would have loved to have wired some explosives to the ignition of this car. I smile at the thought as I insert the key and turn it in the ignition.
The engine roars to life, and I navigate the powerful vehicle onto the main road heading south. This stretch of highway is generally flat in the part of the valley I’m in. This section of the Appalachians is characterized by long, even ridges, with long, continuous valleys in between. The width of these valleys varies in size, sometimes being vast and other times nearly nonexistent where the ridges meet. Our cabin sits on the part of a mountain that directly overlooks an adjoining ridge, with only a narrow valley between them.
Despite having no indication anyone is onto me or I’m being followed, I can’t help but be on edge. The extra time I spent with Boston almost ruined my escape plans. I should have just shot him when he came in the back door and hightailed it out of there. When the FBI barged in, I thought I’d never be able to make it to where the Jeep was stored and slip out of Washington. I deviated from my plan and wasted time―two errors I don’t plan on repeating.
Unless I make a mistake, there is no way the FBI will ever catch up to me. That knowledge affords me the luxury of planning my next move. I will expose the scoundrels, liars, and charlatans in D.C. for who they are, and I will use every medium I can do to do it. I will rub their collective faces in their ineptitude, and every American will know who I am and why I did what I did. Their leaders will no longer be able to hide behind their lies when I am done.
Grinning at that thought, I turn off the main road onto a smaller road that leads to the cabin. After a couple of miles of winding road, it starts to get steeper and then turns from asphalt to gravel. The engine complains and the tires crunch the road beneath me as they struggle for traction.
I never liked this part of the trip. I have a death grip on the wheel when the piercing sound of my cell phone causes me to practically jump out of my skin. Knowing this could only be one person, I use the wireless hands free device affixed to my ear to connect the call.
“Yes?”
“Asalam Alaikum. It is good that you are well.”
“Wa'alaikum Salam. Thank you. It turned out better than I thought. Has the final payment been made?”
“One hundred thousand dollars has been placed in your offshore account as you requested in appreciation of your services.” A satisfied smile crosses my lips as I ease back into my seat. I can finally relax a little.
“Excellent.”
“I also have a new passport and identification with the name of the alias you requested that will allow you to leave your country without problem. I will dispatch a courier to bring them to you at the previously agreed upon location. I have included some spending money for you as well. It is a shame we will no longer be able to do business.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry I can no longer be in your service, but it was inevitable. You are resourceful, though. You’ll find another.”
“If Allah wills it,” he agrees.
“God go with you, my friend.”
“Ma'assalama, Gina.”
I end the call on my burner phone and toss it into the backseat. It will be the last time I ever have to use it. I already know where and when my meeting with the courier is.
I check the rearview mirror before returning my attention to the road. There was a small rockslide on the mountain and several rocks are strewn in my path. It’s nothing that my SUV can’t easily overcome, but is another reason I hate this road.
I can’t stop the grin of satisfaction creeping across my lips. I’m almost free. In a day’s time, my journey as Gina Attison will be over and a new one will begin. The thought turns my grin into a broad smile. I just can’t resist hearing myself say it.
“You were right, Boston. People do like happy endings.”
I roll the Jeep over the debris in the road, edging it to the left slightly to avoid a basketball-sized boulder that broke free from the mountainside. Then all hell breaks loose.
The car violently shudders and the sound from beneath me is deafening. I feel the vehicle get lifted off the roadbed a couple of feet as dust and dirt obscures my view out of the windows. The force from another blast on the side of the road jars the vehicle. I have no control … It’s wrong … I’m tumbling …
Time moves in slow-motion. I feel the movement … the sound of metal scraping. Another sound from beneath me. Close. The roof begins to tear apart as I feel cuts … a thousand razors gashing at my skin. I let go of the wheel … I need to shield myself. I feel them puncture … cut … tear …
The car slows. I hit something. My breathing … can’t breathe … Blood is everywhere. Now the vehicle rocks and I feel like I’m falling … weightless … helpless …
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~ Chapter 89 ~
eric “Maryland” williams
We watch from the opposite mountain as the explosion propels the Jeep through the flimsy guardrail and it begins a slow descent towards the valley below. The cliff is not sheer, but more a steep mountainside that causes the progress to the bottom to get arrested every few seconds. It’s a little like watching the Plinko game on The Price is Right.
Real-life car crashes are not like what you see in the movies. At least, this one isn’t. The car has not burst in flames on the way down the mountainside like any action film aficionado would predict. Instead, the unimpressive visual effects are only narrated by the sounds of twisting metal hitting rock and vegetation groaning as the wreck tumbles down the cliff. It all ends as what’s left of the SUV comes to rest upside down at the bottom of the ravine six hundred feet below us.
Nothing is said between us as we watch. We stare intently at the almost unrecognizable vehicle, as if expecting Gina to crawl out of the twisted remains. It’s completely impossible, but the thought nags at me regardless. If the explosions didn’t kill her, the ride down the mountainside certainly did.
I finally look over to my left at Louisiana. His hands are in his pockets and he’s wearing a satisfied grin on his face. This is probably not a new experience for him considering the world he went to after our discharge from the military. The difference is this one was personal. Indirectly, Gina set each of us on our paths that fateful day in Iraq. Boston’s path led him to his living room where the woman he proposed marriage to put a bullet in his head. Now we have come full circle. For Louisiana, this closes the book. Giving me a silent nod, he heads away from our vantage point and back toward the road where our car awaits.
I turn to my right and look at Tara. She is looking down at her shaking right hand whose thumb has gone white from squeezing the send button of a cell phone. Noticing that I’m staring at her, she finally releases the button and tosses the cheap device to me. She doesn’t bother looking down at the vehicle. She’s seen all she needs to see.
Tara, the most nonviolent person I have ever met, had only one request when we put this plan together. This was her role, and her life will be forever changed because of it. I look down at the display of the phone we used to detonate Louisiana’s explosives. It says simply, “call ended.”
I remove the battery and smash it against a rock before hurling it down the steep mountainside before me. There’s little chance it could ever be traced back to us, or what just happened here, assuming anyone ever finds Gina’s car at the bottom of that mountain to begin with. The leak that plagued our country for years is no longer in a position to do any harm, and the story is dead. Thanks to us, so is the mole.
Boston got his answer. Louisiana got his revenge. I can get back to normal. For the first time in years, things are all right in the world. I stuff my hands in the pockets of my jeans and grin. Tara and Louisiana can wait at the car for a while. I’m going to stand here and admire the view.
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Acknowledgements
Thank you to all my readers who let Michael Bennit into their hearts to make that series a rousing success. Boston, Tara, Maryland and Louisiana were a far different cast of characters, so I hope you enjoyed their journey as well. For anyone who did not read the Michael Bennit series, it is my sincere hope that you give them a chance to win you over as well.
As always, my heartfelt appreciation goes to Michele, who
se patience and understanding makes it possible to pursue my dream. Writing is a labor of love, with heavy emphasis on the labor part. I simply could not do any of this without her. My family has also been incredibly supportive of me. To my parents Ronald and Nancy, and my sister Kristina, thank you for always being there and showing your unwavering support.
My military career came to an end during the completion of this novel. I have met some of the greatest men and women our nation has to offer serving with distinction in the United States armed forces. It has been an honor wearing the uniform with you, and it is with my heartfelt gratitude for your service that I dedicate this novel on your behalf to all those who have been wounded in combat.
My continued thanks go to my editor Caroline, Gary, and the rest of the staff at BubbleCow for their guidance and advice in bringing the storyline together. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Diana for the copyediting job on this book. A special thanks also goes to R. Atanassova for creating the incredible cover art for this novel. I think she did an amazing job capturing the essence of the story and blending it together into an eye-catching image.
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A Note from the Author
The Eyes of Others was based off a screenplay I wrote in 2009. There were a lot of changes to that work, and it was fun watching the characters grow far beyond what I originally imagined them as. The story is far more complex than the original, and explores themes much more in depth than you can do in a screenplay. I was happy with the story when it was finished, and I hope you feel the same after reading it.