by Chad Zunker
“Yes, sir.”
Lloyd tried to soften, so he wouldn’t put more stress on Michelle, even though his mind was exploding. Sam in Moscow? CIA? Dead bodies?
“Just get some rest, okay?” he urged Michelle, forced a grin. “I’ll look into it.”
“You’ll let me know when you find Natalie?”
“Of course. I’m sure everything is fine.”
He patted her on the arm, headed for the door. Walking down the hallway with renewed urgency, Lloyd immediately called Epps. He instructed him to get Lamar James into a conference room ASAP and for Epps to pull everything they had on Natalie Foster. Lloyd would be back at the office in ten minutes.
“One more thing, Michael,” Lloyd added. “Send someone over here to keep watch over Michelle. I’ll explain more when I get to the office.”
FORTY
Natalie stood near the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. The DC sky was overcast and drizzling, with hints of more rain, but there were still plenty of tourists out on the sidewalks near the wall and over by the Lincoln Memorial. Earlier, she’d ditched the Redskins cap after purchasing a new black hoodie at Old Navy with cash. She wore the hoodie now with her head completely covered. Ms. Anonymous. She needed to keep mixing up her appearance, just to be safe, although she certainly hoped it would never come down to drastically changing her hair. Then again, she’d shave her head completely bald it if meant somehow getting Sam safely home.
She wasn’t at the memorial wall to sightsee, of course; she was looking for someone. Her military contact, Levi, had found her a guy he thought could help her. She was appreciative of his quick work. She needed answers soon, both for her own safety as well as to find Sam. Natalie’s desperation grew with each passing hour and no word from Sam. It had become increasingly difficult to guard her thoughts from drifting to the worst-case scenario—a life without Sam in it.
She spotted someone approaching who matched the description Levi had given her. Short and stocky, midthirties, buzz cut, walked with a slight limp because he’d caught shrapnel from an explosion in Afghanistan. Abe Dones. He wore military fatigue pants and a tight black T-shirt that showed off the muscles in his arms and chest. Stopping midpoint at the memorial wall, he looked around in both directions. Natalie did a last sweep of the area, checking for anyone suspicious that she might have missed. Then she made her move, hit the sidewalk, sidled up behind the guy.
“You Abe?” she whispered.
He turned, gave her a once-over. “Yeah.”
“Will you walk with me?”
He gave her another up and down, grinned. “You bet.”
They moved away from the memorial wall, farther up the sidewalk, steering clear of the mass of tourists. Natalie immediately spotted the Hell Dogs tattoo on the back of the man’s right hand.
“Thanks for coming,” she said. “Levi said you might be able to help me.”
He shrugged. “I’ll try. I owe Levi. He got me a good job with Centennial Security last year. Really saved my ass and got me back on my feet.”
“How long you been out of the military?”
“Five years. Steady work has been a bit difficult to find.”
“Afghanistan?”
“Three tours,” he said proudly. He pointed down at his leg. “Would’ve kept on going if not for this damn thing.”
She gave him a sad smile. “Sorry.”
He shrugged. “Price of freedom.”
“Can you tell me about the tattoo?”
He glanced down at his hand. “Well, no offense, ma’am, but that’s kind of between me and my platoon.”
“You keep in touch with the other guys?”
“A few. A lot of them didn’t make it back, unfortunately. Who are you trying to find?”
Natalie pulled the Metro photo out of her pocket, handed it to Abe.
“You know him?” she asked.
He squinted at the photo, nodded. “He in some kind of trouble?”
Natalie wasn’t sure how she wanted to answer that. Abe was protective of the guys from his platoon; otherwise, he would’ve just come out and told her the guy’s name. She could simply lie, tell Abe she needed to find the guy for no consequential reasons, and hope he just gave up the name. Or go with the truth.
“He tried to kill me last night,” she said, choosing the truth. “He chased me through the Metro with a gun.”
Abe’s eyes narrowed. “You serious?”
She nodded.
“Damn,” Abe replied, looking at the photo again. “His name is Lenny Gregor. A real hell-raiser, always getting us into trouble. Was dishonorably discharged after hitting our commanding officer. I never really liked Lenny. But I never figured he’d pull something like this. Why was he chasing you?”
“I don’t know yet. You know where he lives?”
Abe shook his head. “Haven’t spoken with him in a few years. Although another buddy recently told me Lenny had started doing some shady odd-job security work. Nothing legitimate, like I do with Centennial. This was more gangster-type intimidation for poor man’s debt collections and such. Doesn’t surprise me. Lenny was always picking fights and busting people up.”
“Any ideas how I can find him?”
Abe thought a moment. “Lenny used to hang out over at the Raven. Not sure if he does anymore.”
“On Mount Pleasant?”
“Yeah, that’s the place.” He studied Natalie. “Hey, are the police involved?”
She nodded but didn’t elaborate.
“Well, if you need my personal protection, I’ll happily give it to you. If Lenny comes back around to mess with you again, I’d take great pleasure in kicking his ass.”
“Thanks.” She forced a smile. “You’ve been a tremendous help already.”
FORTY-ONE
Sam stood near a curtain-drawn window inside a cramped first-floor room at Motel Flora, a rent-by-the-hour dump of a building two miles away from where he’d just watched Mack get gunned down by Alger Gerlach. And had barely escaped himself. Thankfully, Tommy was with him, sitting in a rickety chair at a tiny desk, laptop open in front of him. After fleeing the scene, Sam had made sure to sweep by, immediately grab Tommy, and get them both far enough away where Sam might actually be able to think clearly again.
Standing there, he wasn’t sure that was possible, knowing the Gray Wolf was still in the same city, eager to put a bullet in him. He still couldn’t believe he’d just had another face-to-face encounter with the infamous assassin. Had the CIA once again sent the Gray Wolf? Was a bigger cover-up going on than Sam had even imagined? Had they set Mack up with the proposed meeting place only to ambush him? Had they found Mack the same way Tommy had? By tracking his CIA alias? Sam’s thoughts went to a darker place. Or was all this the sinister handiwork of a man they called the Lion?
He’d been pondering the last possibility ever since Mack mentioned that Pelini might have been planning to disappear after the operation. Had this all been one big setup so that Pelini could finally be paid and then vanish like a ghost? Would the gray-bearded man really hire an assassin like Gerlach to clean up his loose ends? Just the thought of it made Sam’s stomach coil up into a fist-tight ball and sent a wave of chills down his spine. Somehow, he almost hoped the CIA was behind Gerlach and not Pelini. Because the second possibility would likely cripple Sam in such a way that not even God himself could ever help him recover.
Turning from the window, Sam looked over at Tommy, who was working on getting them both on a train to Paris tonight. From there, they’d travel to Le Tréport, where Mack had mentioned Lucinda was hiding out at a safe house. Sam only hoped they could somehow get to her before the Gray Wolf did.
“The CIA is now officially looking for you,” Tommy mentioned.
“How do you know?”
“It’s out in the open now on their internal channels. They’re officially searching for you, Pelini, Lucinda, and Mack.”
Sam shook his head. “I should call their hotline, inform them that Mack is now dead. Then again,
there’s a strong possibility they already know that if they hired Gerlach to hunt down each of us.”
“I don’t know. These are clearly ‘find and detain’ instructions.”
Sam leaned in from behind Tommy, watched as he scrolled down to show profile photos of each of them, including Sam. “The omission of the others probably means they’ve already confirmed them all dead.”
“Most likely,” Tommy agreed. “Last known whereabouts for each of you is still listed as Moscow, but there’s no mention of any details on why you were all there together.”
“Nor any mention of our other aliases.”
“Correct. Which seems odd.”
“Unless Pelini put them together himself, off-line, for his own reasons.”
Tommy looked up at Sam. “You still believe he might be behind it all?”
“So far, most of the bread crumbs lead back to one strong possibility, whether I want to believe it or not.”
“Damn.” Tommy sighed as if he also felt the weight of Sam’s disappointment. “What do you want to do, man?”
“The only thing we can do. We hunt the Lion. And we don’t stop until we find him.”
FORTY-TWO
As instructed, Agent Epps had Lamar James waiting to meet with Lloyd inside a small conference room at FBI headquarters. Lamar sat upright in his seat when Lloyd barged through the glass doors. The young agent seemed uneasy about sitting there for undisclosed reasons—like a teenager who’d just been called down to the principal’s office, unsure of why he was being busted. Lamar had a slender build, with a thick mop of fiery red hair. He was a good analyst who worked mostly on Russian affairs.
“Relax, Lamar,” Lloyd suggested, getting situated. “I just need you to show me the video you pulled up last night when Michelle Blair was sitting with you.”
Lamar’s eyebrows pinched. “Moscow?”
“Correct.” Lloyd pointed at the laptop sitting on the table. “Pull it up on the big screen for me, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lamar reached over, opened the laptop, began typing in his passwords. Standing near the head of the table, Epps used a remote to power up the digital screen on the wall of the conference room. Lloyd walked over, stood beside him, stared at the screen.
“What’s this about?” Epps asked.
“Not sure yet. Let’s just watch and see first.”
Within thirty seconds, Lamar had the video up on the big screen. Lloyd’s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. It looked like surveillance footage from inside the living room of a small house. Lloyd immediately counted the bodies he could see within view of the camera. He could make out four of them: two on the floor, one slumped over a table, and a stone-faced man in his fifties who sat directly in front of the security camera, blood covering his neck.
“What the hell?” Epps said.
“Roll it, Lamar,” Lloyd instructed.
The video played. Within seconds, a man walked into the living room. He wore black pants and a black jacket, began carefully stepping over and around the bodies until he stood directly in front of the camera—clearly oblivious to being recorded. Epps cursed, took a step toward the screen. Lloyd shook his head. Sam Callahan. Michelle was right. Callahan took a few things off some of the bodies, disappeared from camera view for a few seconds, reappeared with a black bag, then was gone from the room.
Lloyd turned to Lamar. “That’s it?”
“Yes, sir. That’s all that was intercepted.”
“Where did we get it?”
“Not entirely sure. I believe it’s a CIA feed, but I didn’t try to track it. Should I?”
Lloyd shook his head. “No, leave it alone. You’re certain this is Moscow?”
“Yes, sir. I can place a pin on a map for you.”
“Not necessary. You can go back to your desk now.”
Lamar stood from his chair, circled the table, headed for the glass doors.
Lloyd stopped him. “One more thing, Lamar. Not a word of this to anyone.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alone in the room, Epps and Lloyd huddled.
Epps said, “What the hell, Chief? Why’s Callahan in Russia?”
Lloyd quickly filled him in on the story Michelle had told him from her hospital bed.
“Marcus Pelini?” Epps queried.
“That’s my best guess.”
“That’s a lot of dead bodies. I’ll have Krieger run whatever we can from this video through facial recognition, see if we can identify anyone else in this room.”
“Do it. And let’s go find Natalie Foster.”
FORTY-THREE
Lloyd spent the drive on his cell phone, confirming everything Michelle Blair had just told him at the hospital. Natalie was indeed missing, at least from anyone who was close to her. Natalie’s editor, Nick Montague, had not heard from her since late the previous night, in spite of his repeated calls to her all throughout the day. Montague told Lloyd this was after Natalie had left him an urgent voice mail to call her back. Natalie had been working on a big story, Montague suggested, so it was highly unusual for her not to check in with him at all. As a matter of fact, no one else at PowerPlay had heard from her all day, either. They were all seriously concerned, especially with the news that she’d been in a car crash. Montague said he knew through police sources about Natalie’s claims of a goateed man with glasses and a gray ball cap—the same claims Michelle had made to Lloyd at the hospital. Montague and Lloyd agreed to keep each other posted if they got any word from Natalie.
Epps parked the Buick on the curb outside a row of colorful brownstones on a quiet street near Dupont Circle. According to the address they had on file, Natalie lived on the third floor of the red building in the middle. Lloyd followed Epps up the stairs. When they reached the door, Lloyd immediately suspected something was wrong. The door was cracked open. He could hear noise coming from somewhere inside the apartment. Epps gently pushed the door open a few inches. Looking inside, Lloyd could tell the place had been ransacked, just like his condo the previous night.
Lloyd and Epps shared a glance, both reaching for their guns. Epps pushed the door farther open, where it bumped up against something with a thud. The noise they heard from deeper inside the apartment suddenly stopped.
“FBI!” Epps shouted. “Come out with your hands in the air!”
No response. Epps slipped inside the apartment, Lloyd right behind him. Looking around, Lloyd found everything completely trashed. Whoever had been there—or was still there—left no stone unturned. Lloyd could only hope that Natalie Foster was not home. His pop had experienced the devastating ramifications of something like that.
Guns prepped for firing, they maneuvered farther into the apartment, entering the living room, searching for the noise. A kitchen was in front of them. A hallway to their right, likely leading back to the bedroom. Epps took the lead down the hallway. He poked his head into the bathroom, found it empty, kept moving to the bedroom, stepping over spilled boxes. The door was wide-open. Epps peered into the room, gun first. Lloyd also poked his head around. The window was open, the drapes fluttering in the breeze. Then they heard a banging noise from outside the window—shoes on a metal fire escape!
Racing to the window, Epps jumped out onto the fire escape, Lloyd right behind him. Peering down, Lloyd spotted a man in a black hood who had already made it to the bottom, where he jumped to the dirty pavement in the alley behind the building. Epps was in pursuit down the fire escape, but he was never going to catch the guy. Lloyd kept his eyes on the man, hoping for just one glance back.
When he got it, Lloyd cursed.
The same man who had put his pop in the hospital.
Mike Madrone. CIA shadow operative.
FORTY-FOUR
The Raven Grill was on the street level of a four-story condo building along a commercial strip that included a dry cleaner, a Laundromat, and a dollar store. Not exactly a high-end establishment. A neon martini glass was aglow in the front window. Night had
just fallen on the city as Natalie grabbed a front booth all by herself. She wore a brown cap pulled low on her head with every strand of her hair tucked up beneath it, as well as newly purchased black-framed eyeglasses with no prescription that were just for show—and disguise. She couldn’t afford to be recognized by anyone right now and felt confident she wouldn’t be. Natalie had been to the Raven once before with two girlfriends to meet up with some guys. The dive bar had a certain old-time charm with its tabletop jukeboxes, nicotine-stained walls with peeling paint, and various portraits of entertainment icons like Elvis, John Lennon, and Bob Dylan.
Surveying the narrow dive bar, she took in the dozens of faces sitting at the other booths, tables, and at the bar in the back of the joint. No sign of Lenny Gregor—her infamous man with the goatee—and the man who seemed intent on taking her out. Lenny had checked out just as Abe Dones had suggested. Dishonorably discharged from the army several years back. Not much on public record of his employment anywhere for the last few years. Lenny was leasing a crummy apartment unit off Quincy Street, not far from the Raven. Natalie had been scoping out the apartment building for the past few hours, with no luck. No one had gone in or come out of his unit. So she’d now set her hopes on finding Lenny at the Raven tonight. It was a slim hope, but she had no other plans at this point. Lenny was her only current pathway toward getting to the truth, so she decided she’d sit there in the booth until the place closed, if necessary.
She didn’t have to wait all night. Lenny walked inside about an hour into her visit. The goatee and glasses were in place on his stocky frame. He wore a black T-shirt with jeans and brown work boots. Natalie immediately felt a shiver of chills on her neck. She eased down into the booth as he passed by her without a second look and made a quick path toward the bar. He grabbed a stool, ordered a shot of something, quickly downed it, then ordered another. Natalie watched him intently through fingers laced together on the tabletop in front of her, hiding her face.
Sitting there for several minutes, Lenny kept checking his phone, then glancing back toward the front door. Was he meeting someone? Natalie wasn’t sure what to do now that she’d actually put eyes on the guy. Under any other conditions, she would have turned Lenny right over to the police. Lock him up and keep herself safe from a lunatic with bad intentions. But these were not normal conditions. Locking Lenny up would not help her find the truth—whoever was behind his role in all this would only pull in ranks and perhaps disappear altogether. She needed to keep Lenny in play for now to monitor where he went and whom he talked with, if she had any chance of finding out what was really going on with Sam.