The Mercenary

by Dan Hampton

  Then General Sturgis took the podium. Adjusting the microphone to his lack of height, he lowered his chin and gazed sternly into the darkened room.

  “It says a lot about a man when so many take time to pay tribute to him.”

  From where the mercenary sat, the room looked to be two-thirds empty.

  Sturgis rattled off an impressive string of clichés, using all the buzzwords. Leadership, integrity, core values, leadership, vision, leadership, vision . . .

  The Sandman would’ve been disgusted under normal circumstances. But today wasn’t normal, nor was it about Sturgis. Yet.

  “Thank you, General Sturgis.” Neville came to the podium, all smiles. “It is such an honor to have you here. Jean and I would like to thank everyone for coming and sharing this exciting time in our lives.”

  Doug Truax rolled his eyes.

  “It’s been said that accolades from your peers mean more than anything and I can tell you it’s true. To be recognized this way is truly gratifying. This has been such a great assignment for Jean and I,” Neville droned on. “But it’s time to go and I only hope I can continue serving the warfighter up at the Pentagon.”

  Barf. Paul Mathis closed his eyes and thought about flying.

  “Now,” he looked around at the captain, “I believe we’ve got a brief video clip to show, and then Jean and I invite you to stay for refreshments.”

  He stepped away from the podium and the room went dark for a moment. Then the TopGun theme song began to play and the video rolled. It was Neville’s F-22 publicity tape. He’d been the moving force behind the media hype for the Raptor and was obviously very proud.

  Doug Truax yawned.

  What he didn’t see was Neville quietly stepping behind the folding screen into the adjoining reception room and making his way to the hallway. Nor did he see the dark form by the back door also rise and slip out.

  Headed for the lavatory, Jimmy Neville enjoyed the warm glow of self-congratulation. A successful assignment. He’d managed to quash the rumors that the F-22 was underperforming. One troublesomely honest officer had been transferred and creative computerized accounting had hidden the budgetary hemorrhage. That was part of the staff magic and—he smiled—he knew he was very good at it.

  Oh, eventually it would be impossible to hide, but by then he’d be long gone and it would fall on someone else’s head. In the meantime he’d earned the gratitude of General Sturgis, who had a nice post-retirement job lined up as a defense contractor.

  He clattered across the hardwood floor of the AfterBurner pilot bar at the rear of the Officer’s Club. It was safely segregated from the main show bar used by the generals who didn’t want to be offended by fighter pilots’ antics. Neville barely noticed the patches, pictures, and fighter-squadron memorabilia on the wall. Although he’d flown fighters, it had never really been his world.

  He certainly didn’t notice the silent figure that emerged from the darkened alcove and followed him down the hall. Neville pushed inside the bathroom and smiled at his reflection. He looked good.

  Except the ribbons. The colonel frowned and stepped to the urinal. There must be some way to get to Iraq on a four-month deployed staff. A CAOC job shouldn’t be too tough to wrangle. Why, most of the colonels and above were coming away from those deployments with Bronze Stars. That, he decided, would look good on his chest. Then no one could doubt he’d “been there” too.

  He heard the door open and turned his head sideways but he only saw a blue uniform. Had to be someone from his reception.

  “Not too painful, was it?” he chuckled. He could afford to be condescending.

  “No,” a low voice answered. “But it’s about to be.”

  Neville’s brow furrowed—that didn’t make sense. But the voice. He knew that voice. He was half turning to see better when something hard struck the back of his neck. The colonel’s mouth dropped open as his head slammed into the wall and bright lights burst under his eyelids. Shocked and confused, Neville felt himself spun around and shoved against a stall. He managed one quick gasp of air before his groin exploded. Eyes bulging from their sockets, his mouth opened and closed in agony as the knee came away from his crotch. The colonel collapsed against rock-hard arms and barely felt the man lean into him.

  “Now, you worthless fuck,” the voice penetrated the misty fog of his brain. “Your life is over.”

  “What . . .” Neville tried to raise his head but couldn’t. “No . . . why . . .” he croaked.

  A hand grabbed him under the chin and tilted his face back. The arms tightened to straighten him out. He blinked but could only see a muddled blue outline. Neville felt the slap, and cheeks stinging, his vision cleared slightly, he focused on the face. He knew that face. But it was impossible.

  “You . . .” He blinked at the dark, expressionless features a foot away. “But . . .”

  The mercenary saw the comprehension dawn and was satisfied.

  “Payback,” he whispered, his left hand locked onto the man’s jaw, and he grabbed a handful of Neville’s hair in his right. “You steaming little sack of shit.”

  “No,” Neville whimpered in disbelief. “You can’t . . . you . . .”

  As the colonel tried to straighten, the Sandman simultaneously yanked down with his right hand and wrenched violently up with his left. Neville’s head twisted back at an impossible angle, his eyes wide with shock and denial. As his neck snapped with an audible pop, the last thing Jimmy Neville saw was the sagging ceiling trim on the wall behind the stalls.

  The mercenary let the colonel’s head flop onto his chest and braced the body with his knee. He then snapped the neck again in the other direction just to make sure. Dropping the body on the floor, he smiled a bit as the head landed in a nasty stain of old urine and pubic hair. The whole encounter had lasted less than thirty seconds. Staring at Neville’s glazed, lifeless eyes, the Sandman regretted killing him so quickly. Neville should’ve suffered more.

  Nudging the corpse with his toe, the Sandman suddenly froze as the hollow sound of feet on wood echoed in the outside hallway. Ducking into the stall, the Sandman grabbed the body under its armpits and hauled it upright. Sitting quickly on the toilet, he slipped an arm under Neville’s legs, cradled the body on his lap and waited.

  Paul Mathis opened the door to the bathroom and walked to the urinal. Thirty minutes of bullshit had filled his bladder and he seriously considered just skipping the rest. Who would notice anyway?

  Then he saw the blue trouser legs under the stall divider. The feet were tapping slightly like a man does who’s waiting on a toilet. Shit. It had to be Neville, he’d seen him leave the podium and duck out. The feet kept tapping. Finishing quickly, the major washed his hands and left.

  The mercenary heard the door shut and listened to the footsteps retreating on the wood floor. Sliding off the seat, he dumped the body on the toilet, legs askew, and stood up quickly. Neville’s bowels had relaxed and the stink was filling the small room. Perfect. The Sandman stared at the corpse and smiled. Dead on a commode in a puddle of your own shit . . . You got off easy, you worthless fuck.

  Stepping to the door, he cracked it slightly and glanced down the empty hallway. Coming out slowly, he walked to a small exit door at the back of the bar and stepped into the sunlight. Calmly striding down the walkway, he crossed the small street like any other officer leaving the club.

  Easing behind the wheel of a rented SUV, he slipped on a pair of dark glasses and briefly considered his way out. All the gates had cameras that recorded traffic on and off the base so his vehicle would be seen. But it didn’t matter. It was a rental using a false license and credit card and both would be discarded within the hour.

  The closest and fastest way out was the King Street Gate. It was 300 yards across a causeway from the Officer’s Club and he could see it from where he sat. But not much traffic passed that way and once Neville
’s body was found it would probably be assumed that the killer left that way.

  The LaSalle Gate was much bigger. More than a thousand vehicles a day passed that way and, once clear of the base, it was a direct shot to Interstate 64. But it was also a mile and half away through two traffic lights and would take about seven minutes. It would take at least five minutes before someone went looking for Colonel Neville and another five to get over it, confirm it, and call EMS and the Security Police. They would immediately lock the base down and close the gates. He pulled out and headed toward the LaSalle Gate.

  He decided he had ten minutes.

  Doug Truax walked out the double doors and frowned at the empty hallway. General Sturgis wanted to leave and needed a quick PR photo with Neville before he left. No one had seen the colonel since he stepped off the stage and Axe figured he’d gone to the can.

  A figure emerged from the shadows but it was too tall and athletic to be Neville. It was Jonny Mathis.

  “Any idea where Neville went?”

  Mathis jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “In the crapper . . . past the bar. Why?”

  “They need pictures.” He walked down the hall and the younger pilot followed.

  The Sandman came around the traffic circle and headed toward the center of the base. Straight ahead was the fighting side of the base with the flight line, operations, and squadron buildings far away from the staff and headquarters. At the intersection just before the fire department there was a light. Going straight would lead past the flight line and out the West Gate. A right turn would parallel the flight line in the opposite direction and eventually end up in the golf course. The mercenary moved to the left-turn lane behind an old Lincoln. Left at the light here would take him past the hospital and out the La Salle Gate. His eyes flickered constantly between the rearview mirror and the other cars. But with twenty yards to go, the light suddenly changed from green to yellow and the old Lincoln slowed to stop. He could make out the gray heads of two elderly retirees and sighed.

  He had time.

  Axe pushed open the door to the lavatory and stuck his head in. He could make out blue uniformed legs and shiny black shoes under the stall door.

  “Colonel Neville?” he spoke to the feet. “Colonel . . . the general would like to get a picture with you as soon as it’s convenient.”

  Nothing.

  He stepped inside and Mathis held the door open behind him.

  “Colonel Neville?”

  The feet hadn’t even moved. He frowned and tapped on the door. “Hello? Who’s in there, please?”

  Mathis cleared his throat impatiently. But even if it wasn’t Neville, whoever it was should’ve answered. Truax felt a knot of uneasiness swell in his gut.

  “Colonel, are you all right?” He thumped the door harder and it swung open. A wave of shit-filled air hit him and he involuntarily stepped back.

  “Sorry.” His first impulse was to apologize for breaking in on a man doing his business.

  But as he backed up a step he realized the man behind the divider still hadn’t moved. Leaning forward again, he peered into the stall at the grotesquely twisted neck and dead face staring back at him.

  The light changed.

  The Sandman started forward behind the creeping Lincoln. He could see the old man pointing to the aviation monument to the left. Rather than just pull into the park and take a picture the elderly couple decided it was easier to just slow down to use the camera. With the blissful ignorance of a retiree, the driver ignored the line of cars behind him and slowed to fifteen miles per hour. The old woman raised her camera.

  There was still another light to get through and a mile to the gate. But speeding on a military base was a sure way to meet the Security Police and that wouldn’t do at all. Besides—he glanced in the rearview mirror—there was a cop two cars behind him.

  Axe sprinted through the bar and down the dark hallway. He came to the administration office, but the door was locked.

  Slapping the glass in frustration, the pilot ran past the reception area and looked for another office.

  “Colonel Truax?”

  He slowed to a fast walk and looked over his shoulder.

  Shit. Mrs. Neville.

  “Have you seen Jimmy? He’s wanted inside . . . honestly, that man . . .”

  Ignoring her, he trotted on down the hall.

  “Colonel . . .”

  Her voice faded as he came around the corner. There! An open office.

  A chubby receptionist sat at the desk chattering mindlessly into a phone. Dressed in an unbelievable red dress with a matching bow he had the irrelevant thought that he was speaking to a huge strawberry.

  “I need the phone, please. Emergency.”

  She barely glanced at him and went right on talking with the casual disregard of all secretaries everywhere.

  Reaching across the desk, Axe yanked the phone from her hand and punched a LINE OUT button.

  “Wha . . . how dare you . . . I . . .”

  “Shut up,” he snapped. “And keep quiet.” Her mouth made a perfect O.

  He hit 0 and waited for the operator.

  “Get me the Security Police. Emergency.”

  The secretary was still irate. “You can’t just barge in here and take—”

  “Sir”—Major Mathis had followed him in—“what do you want me to do?”

  “Quietly get one of the captains from the reception and tell him to secure the building. No one leaves. Then you get back to the john and let no one in till I get back.”

  “Security Police. Can I help you?” a gravelly voice answered.

  Axe waved the major to the door. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Truax and this is an emergency. Get me the watch officer now.”

  The last light changed to green and the Lincoln turned right, toward the base exchange and commissary. The Sandman smoothly accelerated to the 35 mph limit and looked in the rearview mirror. The car behind him also turned right and now the blue police pickup slid to within two car lengths. It had been almost eight minutes since he’d left the O’Club, but the gate was still a hundred yards ahead. A series of concrete blocks forced outgoing traffic to one left lane so he eased over, slowing down to exit the base. The police truck followed.

  “He’s dead, Lieutenant, do you get that?” Axe snapped into the phone. The secretary, now silent, listened wide-eyed. “It happened within the last ten minutes and the killer is probably still on the base. Seal the gates!”

  “Sir, I’m sorry but I don’t know you . . . and I need more than a voice on the phone to seal off Air Combat Command Headquarters.” The younger officer sounded shaky.

  Doug Truax took a deep breath. “You listen to me, Lieutenant, and you listen real fucking good. If you don’t seal the base this very minute I will personally see that the ACC Commander sends you to Maxwell to grade papers for the rest of your sorry career. Use my name, use his name . . . use any damn name you want, but seal the gates!”

  “All right sir.” The Security Police officer caved in. “But you’ll need to stay on the line . . . I’ll need more information.”

  “I’ll give you my wife’s cup size if you want it. Just close up the fucking base!”

  Passing the first of two barricades, the mercenary weaved right, then left. As he did, he saw the police lights flash in his rearview mirror.

  How had it happened so quickly? Swallowing once, he suppressed the overwhelming desire to stomp on the gas. He’d at least exit the base, then pull over and deal with the policeman. Past the last barricade now, he slowed, then watched as the police truck abruptly turned off and slid to a stop next to the gate, blocking the road to outbound traffic.

  Accelerating smoothly down La Salle Avenue, he exhaled and thought about it. It had to be the guy who came into the bathroom while he was there. He must’ve seen something that made him suspiciou
s and he came back.

  Rounding the corner, the only light between him and Mercury Boulevard was green, so he sped up to make it. Stealing one final glance in the rearview mirror, the mercenary saw both of the big iron gates slide shut.

  Langley was closed.

  Chapter 11

  For twenty minutes the Sandman drove smoothly and quickly straight down Mercury Boulevard through the city of Newport News. He watched for telltale flashing lights but saw none. Mercury Boulevard became Highway 17, and he followed the gentle incline up onto the James River Bridge. Watching the electronic billboard, he saw both lanes were open and the drawbridge was closed. Passing beyond the huge riverside complex of the Newport News Shipyard, the mercenary crossed the river into Isle of Wight County at 11:50.

  Exhaling slightly, he remembered the shocked expression on Neville’s dying face. The colonel thought he lived in a civilized country. He thought his pretty uniform and little silver eagles were protection against everything. The flash of realization and recognition on his face the instant before he died was worth the risk.

  Following the markers toward Smithfield, he came to a T intersection known as Benn’s Church. Turning left at the light, the mercenary headed south on Highway 10 toward the larger city of Suffolk. It was rolling farm and horse country; scarcely a mile went by without a sign advertising horses or riding. He saw one brown-and-white sheriff’s cruiser, but it was unhurriedly going the opposite way.

  Suffolk had been a charming town about ten years earlier but, like most communities in the Tidewater area of Virginia, that had long passed. Too many people moving down from Washington or away from the Peninsula had spread the overcrowding and inflated prices that plagued the country. He drove slowly down Main Street, a wide, pleasant avenue lined with cafés, bookshops, and antique shops. Hunter-green flags hung horizontally from black wrought-iron lampposts every twenty feet. Turning left on Constance Street, he made an immediate right and pulled into a shady corner of the Cedar Hills Cemetery parking lot. It was empty.