by Jack Rogan
For a moment she just stood and took it in, this display of his work in progress. If what he had told her was true, Matthew Lynch was the last surviving War Child of the Second World War. He had been involved in this fight his entire life, first surviving the killers who would have murdered him just for being born, then trying and mostly failing to save so many of the children of other wars, before finally giving in and becoming a killer himself.
Cait walked along the first two whiteboards, surveying the photographs of the men and women Lynch had marked for death—people he had confirmed were involved with the murder of War’s Children. Many races were represented, but the overwhelming majority were photos of men who looked like Muslim jihadists.
“Why not more Americans?” she asked.
Lynch glanced at her, took in her appearance, and nodded in what she presumed was approval.
“The members of the Collective are harder to find,” he said.
“That’s a little difficult to believe,” she said. “You’re trying to tell me it’s easier to track down radical jihadists who’ve infiltrated the country to murder children than it is to figure out who the Herods are in our own country?”
Lynch pointed to a photo on the board in front of him. “This guy? Saudi-born, living in Pakistan. Affiliated with loads of terrorist groups, wanted in Egypt for questioning in the beating death of a three-year-old girl. He’s been in the United States a dozen times in the past five years that I know of, and if the information I have about his movements is accurate, you can trace the death of certain children to his presence. I know this because I have access to federal government databases that I should not have access to. Those same databases are not going to tell me who the Collective are using for similar jobs here. Those kinds of secrets are too well hidden. So, yes, I’ve caught up with a number of the American conspirators over the years, but the jihadists are easier for me to hunt. Unfortunately, I’ve never been able to track down any of the masters of the conspiracy on either side of this war. During Vietnam, we caught up to half a dozen American industrialists and politicians who were a part of it.”
“You killed them?”
Lynch nodded, fixing her with a hard look. “And the war ended. Ugly, but it ended. Make of that what you will.”
Cait shook her head and blew out a breath. “It hurts my head to even think about it.”
“Unfortunately, it’s your life now,” Lynch told her.
“Not for long,” she said. “I won’t let Leyla grow up in the middle of this insanity.”
Lynch smiled. Handsome as he was, somehow the effect was chilling. “Like me, you mean? You think I’m insane.”
Cait considered lying. “With the life you’ve had, I don’t think anyone would hold you to the usual standard for sanity.”
The old man actually smiled. “Very diplomatic of you, Sergeant.” He went back to looking at the photos. “In any case, things have changed. They got sloppy with you. Maybe they didn’t understand how formidable a target you would be. However it happened, they’ve made a mess of things.”
The photo Lynch had just taped up was of Dwight Hollenbach. Now he put up another, this one a blurry image of a dapper, dark-suited man wearing round glasses, and labeled it Leonard Shelby.
“Not as much as they will,” Cait whispered.
Lynch nodded in agreement, and then turned to meet her gaze fully. “The Middle Eastern men we killed on your property last night were on my list of targets. As you know, I caught up to Gharib al-Din yesterday. Another of them was killed in a police shootout in Sarasota. That accounts for all of the jihadist Herods who were on my list for the eastern half of the country. There is another cell covering the West, but it’s going to take them a while to figure out what the hell’s going on here. And when they do, I believe they’ll stand back and wait to see if the Collective can get the job done for them.”
“So the Arabs are off the board for now,” Cait said.
“Leaving the Collective. They’re the immediate threat, obviously. And we still have no idea as to the extent of the conspiracy,” Lynch said. “These men may be at the top, or just part of the hierarchy. But I do believe they’ll be able to tell me a great deal more than the usual foot soldiers and assassins. I hope to be able to use that information.”
Cait saw him as though for the first time, understood that these whiteboards, this work, was all he lived for. His whole life had been a tragedy caused by men like Hollenbach and Shelby.
“I hope you get the chance, Mr. Lynch,” she said. “For all our sakes. Do you have the floor plan?”
“Already in the truck.”
“And the rest of the guns?”
Lynch tore his gaze away from the whiteboard, fully focusing on her at last. “Also in the truck. We’re ready to go, Caitlin.”
“Good,” she said, her mind running ahead. She didn’t want to say good-bye to Leyla. She felt sick at the idea of leaving her baby behind. But their choices had all been taken from them. “What do you think?”
Lynch stared at her. “Oh, I think we’ll survive getting in. But it’s a terrible plan.”
Cait pulled the photo of Leonard Shelby off the whiteboard, glanced at it once, then folded it and put it into her pocket before looking back at Lynch. “Only if we expected to get out alive.”
Ed Turcotte felt like he’d been left swinging in the breeze, and he didn’t like it one little bit. Worse yet, he had no one to blame. Voss had not been telling him the truth, and his number one agent had stopped answering her phone or replying to his texts. He had kept the messages simple because if he gave Chang a direct order to call him immediately and she did not comply, there could be serious consequences for her.
No matter how frustrated he might be, Turcotte did not want that. In a relatively short time, Chang had proven to be his squad’s most valuable asset, and he could see no upside to letting her flush her career down the toilet. So he would give her plenty of room to run—to pry into places he could not go unnoticed, and pursue lines of investigation that would draw too much attention.
For now, he could truthfully say that he had no knowledge of her whereabouts or activities and blame his ignorance on Voss and Hart and Theodora Wood, the director of ICD. Right now they were giving the orders, and Turcotte had not been made privy to all aspects of the investigation. Normally that would have burned him—even now it chafed something fierce—but he knew they were all doing it for his benefit.
How long he would be willing to let them keep him out of it was another question entirely. Terrorists and Black Ops on U.S. soil, murdered babies and American war veterans branded enemies of the state … the case had turned into a clusterfuck of epic proportions. People were keeping abominable secrets, performing hideous deeds, and the conspiracy to try to make it all disappear included SOCOM, Black Pine, and Turcotte’s own boss.
Current boss, he thought. Dwight Hollenbach had not always been his superior. The previous SSAC of CTD Ops II, Julius Andelman, had moved into an advisory role fourteen months earlier as a stepping stone to retirement.
Turcotte had been thinking about Andelman all morning. He stood in the parking lot outside Hartford Police headquarters, where the FBI had set up an office through the Hartford P.D.’s gracious hospitality, and flipped his cell phone open and then closed, open and then closed.
Chang and the ICD were trying to keep him clear of the shit, just in case it all went bad and he had to explain his actions to Hollenbach. But as much as Turcotte knew how to behave like a political animal, he could not close his eyes to this. He wasn’t stupid—he would tread carefully—but doing nothing would haunt him.
He opened the phone, scanned the contacts list for DR. J, and hit CALL. The phone rang five times, long enough for him to second-guess himself and then reaffirm his decision. Just when he thought he would have to leave a message, Andelman answered.
“Agent Turcotte,” Andelman said. “To what do I owe the plea sure?”
“Hello, Julius.”
>
“My, aren’t we informal today.”
“We need to talk.”
Andelman hesitated, recognizing the tone. “Where are you?”
“Hartford. If you’re concerned about snoops listening in, let them listen. If things have gone so far that they’re not as troubled by this as I am, then there’s no hope for justice anyway.”
“That’s not like you, Ed. You were never prone to melodrama.”
Turcotte glanced around the parking lot to make sure he was alone. A pair of uniformed Hartford cops were climbing into a cruiser at the rear entrance of the building, but other than that, he saw no one.
“It’s not melodrama, Julius.”
“Go on.”
Turcotte told the story with as little editorializing as possible, sticking to the facts of the case, things he had observed himself. He kept it brief. “Agent Voss believes one of our agents was her shooter last night, and that it was no accident,” he finished.
“I see,” Andelman said. “And what do you think, Ed?”
“Given what’s happened thus far—the cover-up at the McCandless woman’s house, the way the public picture of her has been tainted—I think she might be right.”
He heard Andelman exhale.
“You realize what you’re saying?”
Turcotte glanced around again. “I called you, Julius. Hollenbach could burn my career to the ground, but I called you. Do you really think I don’t realize how big this is?”
Andelman went quiet long enough to make Turcotte nervous. He started to wonder if he had made a lethal error in judgment.
“Julius—”
“I’m still here, Ed. Just thinking.”
The purr of an engine made Turcotte turn and watch as a black Lexus slid into the parking lot, moving past the police vehicles and toward him at a crawl. The car was too expensive to be federal or local law enforcement. He couldn’t see through the tinted glass, but the tight ball of anger forming in his gut came from intuition.
“I’ve got to go,” Turcotte said.
“Go,” Andelman replied. “I’ll ask the wrong people the right questions. In the meantime, try not to do anything foolish.”
Turcotte closed the phone without replying and pushed away from the patrol car he’d been leaning against. The Lexus rolled up to him and stopped, smooth as silk, and the passenger door opened.
Norris sat inside, staring at him. The son of a bitch didn’t even bother getting out.
“Agent Turcotte. I was told I might find you here.”
“I thought you had another consulting gig to take care of,” Turcotte said.
“A simple job,” Norris replied. “Now that it’s over, I thought I’d see what help I can still offer.”
Turcotte narrowed his eyes, knowing this guy was the enemy, or at the very least not his friend. He ought to keep his mouth shut, but he could no longer manage it.
“ ’Cause you’ve been a ton of help so far.”
Norris smiled, not even pretending to be startled or insulted. “I take it you’re continuing your investigation of the mysterious child killings as well as tracking Sergeant McCandless.”
“I’m sure you’d have heard by now if we had found her.”
Norris nodded. “I’m sure. Just as I’m aware of the BOLO you issued for Jordan Katz. One of my people pulled a file together on him … He was in McCandless’s unit in Iraq. But of course you already know that. I take it he was the one along for the ride last night with the ill-fated Private Mellace?”
Turcotte had had enough. “You do realize you’re not involved in this case anymore, don’t you, Norris? Nor am I the one in charge. Yes, I’m following up on the avenues of the investigation that were assigned to me, but if you want in, you should talk to Josh Hart.”
A ripple of irritation passed over Norris’s features. It pleased Turcotte to see evidence that he had gotten to the man.
“Unfortunately, Agent Hart is not returning my calls.”
“Have you tried his boss? You people have done such a bang-up job on this case so far, I’m sure Theodora Wood would be happy to hire you on to consult for the ICD.”
Norris smiled again, all teeth, like a shark—and with the dead eyes to make the look complete.
“I’d think very carefully about who you choose as allies, Turcotte.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And while you’re thinking,” Norris said, smile slipping from his face, “perhaps you know where I can find Agent Voss. I understand that Agent Hart is running the show while she recuperates from her injuries, but I’m hoping Voss can persuade him to accept my calls.”
It was Turcotte’s turn to smile. “Agent Voss went home to D.C. My people drove her to the airport.”
Norris studied him. “Agent Voss did not fly home. In fact, after your people dropped her off, she rented a car. She’s driving, Agent Turcotte. I’d like to know where she’s going.”
Turcotte frowned, genuinely curious. “Maybe she decided to drive home,” he suggested, though he did not believe that for a moment.
Norris glared at him, shook his head at what he obviously perceived as Turcotte’s foolishness, and shut the car door. After a moment, the tinted window slid down and Norris leaned over to look out at him.
“Perhaps I ought to have this conversation with your Special Agent Chang, since she’s in D.C. with Agent Hart,” Norris said. He looked thoughtful a moment, then continued, “I wonder, Turcotte. How does it feel to have the rug pulled out from under you after all the times you’ve done it to others?”
Turcotte laughed, wanting to throttle Norris, but happy to see the way his jaw tightened in anger. “Really?” he said. “You want to go there? I’m still working the case, asshole. You’re the one on the outside. How do you like the view?”
Without waiting for a reply, Turcotte turned and walked toward the rear entrance of the police station. He wanted to be with real law enforcement people. The lowliest traffic cop was worth a thousand Norrises.
So much for Chang, Voss, and Hart trying to keep him out of it.
As Josh turned onto the New Jersey Turnpike, he caught Chang giving him a troubled look. The back of his neck prickled with heat and his body ached with the memory of their morning together.
She turned to watch the road ahead, her profile beautiful even when etched with gravitas. Josh told himself not to fall for her, that there were way too many complications.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Just worried. We should have flown.”
“We’re halfway there. By the time we’d arranged a plane and gotten into the air … not to mention the time it would’ve taken to drive from Newark … it didn’t make any sense. Besides, with a plane it would’ve been damned difficult to conceal our movements.” He frowned. “We’ve been through this.”
“I know,” she said, offering him a slim smile. “I’m just not a patient woman.”
“You sure nothing else is on your mind?” he asked.
Chang shook her head with a grin, then whacked him on the leg. “You’re so subtle. Seriously. Of course there are other things on my mind, but now isn’t the time.”
“No, I guess it’s not.”
Several minutes passed without any further conversation as Josh tried to find a decent radio station not fogged by static.
“So, Hoboken,” Chang said. “What do we do when we get there?”
Josh left the radio alone. He glanced at Chang and then focused again on the road. An old ’80s pop song came on the radio—something he remembered from his childhood—and he turned up the volume.
“No idea. It’ll depend entirely on what Cait McCandless does next.”
Herc had spent most of the day in a kind of weird stasis, uncertain how to proceed. Boyce had been lurking behind closed doors ever since the ICD and FBI agents had left, but Herc couldn’t decide if he was having phone conferences with the big bosses or just praying that whoever was trying to cover up this shitstorm actually succeeded.
Meanwhile, Herc had gone about his business as if nothing were wrong, studying topographical scans on his computer and analyzing data. But he carried the Hot Line phone in his pocket and it seemed impossibly heavy. Cait had called several times already, and every time the phone vibrated, he jumped.
In addition to his other duties, he had been working on a special project for Cait, and it wasn’t something he wanted to get caught doing. After the conversation he’d had with Agents Hart and Chang this morning, he had been waiting for the FBI to show up at his office door and charge him with conspiracy or domestic terrorism or the murder of Sean McCandless—any trumped-up charge that would allow them to throw him in a cell for the rest of his life and keep their secrets safe.
But hours had passed—it was after noon—and no one had materialized. Out in the corridor, people talked baseball and Hollywood scandals. His wife texted him to remind him they had dinner plans with Rich and Melinda Belinksy. Mundane e-mail kept arriving in his in-box. Andrea Ulman popped into his office to say she was going to get coffee, and did he want some? Herc thought he was jittery enough without caffeine but he could feel a headache coming on, so he said yes.
Satisfied that he had done all he could and praying that no one in the monitoring suite would stumble across the new lines of code he had keyed in, he closed all of the related computer files and pushed away from his desk, just as Andrea reappeared in the doorway, holding two cups of iced coffee from the second-floor café.
“You do take sugar, right?”
“Usually two, but one’ll do.”
“It will, yeah,” Andrea said. “ ’Cause I’m not going back downstairs.”
Herc took the cup from her and they stepped out into the corridor, walking toward the monitoring room together. He sipped iced coffee through the straw and savored the taste.
“I’m weird,” he said. “Hot coffee I just take with cream, but I need sugar in iced.”