The Mercenary

by Dan Hampton

  “Later, later.” Sturgis waved an arm. “Get the others in here and let’s talk about South Carolina.”

  “Any idea how this maniac got inside the headquarters building and all the way into the commander’s office?” General Sturgis was rubbing his forehead, eyes closed.

  Colonel Lee looked up from his notebook. “They don’t know for certain, but there was a fire alarm about an hour before Colonel Halleck was killed. It’s possible—no, probable—that he got inside then. Colonel Truax was just on the phone with the Shaw vice wing commander.”

  “What caused the fire?” Karen Shipman asked.

  “Uh . . . coffeemaker, they think. Just a short.”

  “Any idea how he got from Texas to South Carolina?” Sturgis still hadn’t opened his eyes. What a fucking mess. He expected a call at any moment from the Chief of Staff of the Air Force. A call he was certain would end his career.

  “Had to be by plane,” Lee replied. “No other way to do it.”

  “And why can’t we find the fucking thing?”

  “Doesn’t really matter, sir.” Colonel Lee shrugged. “He had to use the plane to get back east. No other way to do it fast enough.”

  Abbot had walked in and was leaning against the bookshelf. “Oh, it matters. Could be lots of forensic evidence in that thing. Fingerprints, DNA . . . could all be used to finally ID this guy.”

  “You’re right.” Sturgis nodded at Jolly. “It doesn’t matter at the moment. We may never find the plane or discover how this animal got from Texas to South Carolina. But we do know he was there.”

  “Assuming it’s the same man.” Axe spoke up. “Even wing commanders make enemies . . . jealous husbands, a double life someplace. It happens.”

  “Correct. And we’ll be looking into all of that,” Abbot agreed. “But for now, it’s too coincidental that another officer has been killed. It is almost certainly the same man.”

  “How was he killed?” Karen Shipman quietly asked.

  “Crushed larynx,” Doug Truax answered. “I just got off the phone with Scott Richards, the vice down there. He said Halleck was surprised in his office by the killer.”

  “Hence the throat strike.”

  “Yeah,” Axe nodded. “Can’t cry out or even fight back when you can’t breathe.”

  “And it’s consistent with the other killings,” Karen added. “He always gets in close and uses his hands or something readily available like a knife.”

  “Not needing a gun makes travel easier and less complicated.”

  “It’s not that.” Abbot shook his head and the others looked at him. “He wants his victims to see him, to know who is killing them.”

  “Sick bastard,” muttered Major Dwyer, Sturgis’s twerpy little aid,

  Axe’s eyes narrowed. “No, not sick.” He looked at Jolly Lee. “He obviously knows them if he wants their last sight to be his face. We must’ve missed something. There has to be a connection between all these people. Someone who has a grudge against them all.”

  “Are there any surveillance videos from Shaw?” Abbot asked Colonel Lawson, who nodded.

  “Yes—the SP commander down there is emailing four hours plus or minus from the time they think Halleck was killed.”

  “Where’s the camera?”

  “There’s one in an overhead light at the entrance to Wing Headquarters and one at each gate that may be of use. But”—he paused and looked at the agent—“it seems pointless, since we don’t what he looks like.”

  By way of an answer, David Abbot removed a picture from one of the folders he carried. “This is a still shot taken from one of the BX security cameras the morning of the killings at Randolph.” Everyone crowded around. It was a grainy black-and-white image of a man standing next to a car in what appeared to be a parking lot. Abbot placed the enlargement next to it showing a man standing next to a dark car. Given the height of the camera and the angle of the man’s head, it wasn’t much of a picture.

  “That’s it?” Sturgis sounded incredulous. “That could be Truax here. Why do you think this is our man?”

  Smiling a little, the agent placed a third enlargement on the table. It was the back quarter of the car and showed a partial license plate ending in 265. “Texas switched to a seven-digit mixed-case plate format some years ago. But this”—he tapped on the picture—“is a plain black-and-white plate with no graphic behind it. They didn’t do this until 2012, and it makes the number much easier to read.”

  “Okay . . . great. You can read the plate.” The general was plainly irritable. “This could be anyone.”

  “I remembered the statement made by the agent who went to Huber Airport about a rental car being left. He said it was a Camry, so, on a hunch, I checked with Hertz in Seguin with this partial plate and—”

  “And it’s a match.” Axe was impressed. “Okay. So how did this guy get to Shaw Air Force Base in South Carolina? Did he fly himself in that damned SkyMaster, or did he fly commercial?”

  “If he flew himself we could spend another week trying to find the plane. And for what?” Lee asked. “As I see it, it doesn’t make much difference. I mean, we’re working under the assumption that it’s the same guy anyway.”

  “Why does that even matter? He got to Shaw and killed Colonel Halleck, so why thrash around finding out how he got there?” Sturgis moved back to his desk and sat down. “I’m more interested in where he’ll go next. “

  “That’s exactly the point,” Abbot answered. “If we find out how he got to South Carolina, then we’ll know what identity he’s using now. Unless he’s paying cash for everything, then the electronic money trail will lead to him.”

  “What makes you think he’s using a name other than Dan Tyler?” Major Dwyer asked.

  “Because the leads we did have, Blue River Literary and Trendco Logistics, haven’t been used in twenty-four hours. Because we still don’t know who he is and because everything we do know indicates superb planning and execution. These are all marks of a very experienced and dangerous professional who has remained on the loose in our backyard. This is not a man who makes many mistakes.”

  “So he’s moved on to be someone else.” Karen nodded. “It’s what I would do. So what’s the best way to fly commercial into that part of the country?”

  “Well, Atlanta for one,” Jolly suggested.

  Axe sipped his coffee and thought about that. “There’s also Charlotte in North Carolina. And Columbia and Charleston in South Carolina.”

  “That’s a lot of surveillance video,” Lawson, the cop, said skeptically. “Using this?” He pointed at the picture.

  Abbot nodded. “To start with. But we might also get something from Shaw. Until then”—he looked at Sturgis—“we’ll put out alerts concerning Dan Tyler and the two companies we do know about. Also, I think increasing the official Threat Condition on all military bases would be prudent.”

  “I can do that for ACC bases. I’ll need Chief of Staff concurrence for the others.” Sturgis glanced at Dwyer and jerked his head toward the door. “So let’s get on it . . . goes without saying to inform me instantly of any new developments.”

  Doug Truax and Karen Shipman waited for the FBI agent to gather his papers then they left together. Down the stairs and out the door they stepped into the breezy Virginia afternoon.

  Axe took a deep breath, happy to see the sun and be out of offices smelling of coffee. “Can’t be that simple. Upping the base security conditions.”

  Karen Shipman said nothing and stretched, just a bit longer than necessary, Axe thought.

  David Abbot turned and looked at him. “You’re right. Whatever this man’s up to, I’m sure he’s thought of that. We’re not gonna catch a guy like this that way.”

  “Then why bother?”

  “We’ve got to do something, and,” Abbot added, “maybe we’ll get a break.”

>   As the three of them entered Axe’s office just after three P.M., the phone was ringing and he went to answer it. Plopping down in a chair, David Abbot spread out his material again, and he and Karen were poring over the material when John Lee came in.

  “Where’s Axe?” he sounded excited.

  Karen pointed toward the closed door and Abbot looked up. “What’s that?” He jerked his head at the folder in Jolly’s hand.

  “From Shaw.” He sat down, grinning like the cat with the canary. “Take a look.” He spread out several pictures. “These are still shots from the camera over the headquarters’ main entrance.”

  The best one revealed an officer in a flight suit coming around the building’s corner and he was looking up. Though in a shadow, the image had been lightened enough to provide a decent picture of the man’s face.

  “The hat and big sunglasses don’t help.” Abbot frowned. “Still . . .”

  He pulled out the other picture from Randolph, laid it alongside and the three of them compared the two.

  “Same build. Can’t see much of his hair or features in either one,” said Karen Shipman. “He generally keeps his head down a bit. Like he’s expecting cameras to be around. It could be the same man.”

  “Maybe.” David Abbot was still staring intently and John Lee’s forehead crinkled as he leaned closer. That chin again. Something . . .

  “So who is he?” Karen asked.

  “That’s the kicker. No one seems to know. Nothing was thought of it initially because”—he slid an enlargement on top that showed the pilot’s torso from the neck down as he entered the building—“he’s wearing Stan Eval patches.” Abbot looked up. “ACC Stan Eval patches. Everyone assumed he was part of the exercise evaluation team.”

  The back office door opened and Doug Truax strode out. He also looked excited. “From Shaw! That was Scott Richards again. He’d just gotten off the phone with a major named Toogood in, uh . . . the 77th Fighter Squadron. Three of his pilots gave a lift on base to a lieutenant colonel this morning. A guy they never saw before.”

  “But they figured he was there for the ORI.” Karen sighed.

  Axe looked surprised but Abbot interrupted. “So if these idiots gave him a ride would he have to show ID at the gate?”

  “Probably not. Just the driver. How did you know about the ORI?”

  Shaking his head slightly, the FBI agent pushed the enlarged picture over so Axe could see it.

  “Sonofabitch.”

  “Exactly. Did these pilots happen to remember his name?”

  Axe was still staring at the picture. “Only his call sign . . . which was all he was wearing on his name tag.”

  “What was it?” Karen asked.

  “Blaze,” he tapped the picture. “Just like this.”

  They all leaned forward again and, though at an angle and hard to read, the name under the command pilot wings said ‘BLAZE’.

  “Why would they do that?” Abbot wanted to know. “Bring a stranger onto a base? How fucking stupid is that?”

  Jolly chuckled. “This isn’t the FBI, you know. A pilot wearing oak leaves and ACC patches on the very morning a surprise ORI kicks off asks for a ride from three junior captains. What do you think they’re gonna do?”

  “Couldn’t they tell he was, well, not legit?”

  Lee glanced at Axe but he was still staring at the other picture—the full-length shot of the pilot.

  “My guess is he is legit. Or was at one time. This is a guy who has slipped into and blended on three air bases. He can obviously ‘talk the talk and walk the walk.’ What’s up, Axe?”

  “Haven’t seen his picture in a while. Why d’you have it here?” He leaned on the desk and stirred his coffee.

  The others looked up, surprised. “What are you talking about?” John Lee waved a hand at the mess of papers and photos. “Who?”

  “Who? Him . . . who else?” Axe nodded at the full-front surveillance shot that had been covered by the enlargement.

  Lee and the agent looked at each other and Karen Shipman moved closer. Finally, Abbot cleared his throat. “You, ah . . . you know this guy?”

  The pilot snorted. “Of course. Where’d you dig up the picture?”

  “I didn’t dig it up from anywhere.” Abbot leaned back and gazed up at him. “Who is he?”

  “Why do you have a picture of him?”

  Jolly Lee exhaled. “We think this guy is our killer.”

  For a long moment nothing happened then, to everyone’s surprise, Doug Truax burst out laughing. “That’s impossible.”

  “Why is that?”

  Axe reached over and tapped the picture. “Because he’s been dead for nearly five years.” He turned, sat in one of the chairs, and folded his arms smugly.

  “This picture,” Lee quietly replied, “was taken from a security camera at Shaw Air Force Base . . . this morning.”

  It was Axe’s turn to look surprised and he inhaled sharply.

  Couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.

  The man was dead.

  He’d been to the funeral.

  Chapter 24

  “ . . . late breaking news from Sumter, South Carolina . . . Local authorities and a spokesman for the U.S. Air Force confirm a death at Shaw Air Force Base near Sumter. The body of a senior military officer was discovered around twelve noon today. No cause of death is confirmed at this time but terrorism is not suspected and the State Law Enforcement Division is working closely with federal authorities. The name of the officer hasn’t been released pending notification of the his next of kin. This is WRHI, Rock Hill, AM Thirteen Forty . . .”

  I know his name. The Sandman smiled, turned to a station with music, and glanced at the dashboard clock: 3:34. He’d hoped to be across the next state by the time Halleck was discovered. As it was, he’d just passed the town of Wilson, east of Raleigh, North Carolina, and had another sixty miles to the line.

  State Law Enforcement, the radio had said, working with federal authorities. All military bases were federal installations but the feds rarely intruded, even with a capital crime. So they’ve finally connected the killings, he thought. About time, and not unexpected. What did they have? he wondered. There were no financial or electronic trails to follow, so it had to be surveillance. Or the few personal contacts he’d made. Or both. Still, they wouldn’t have gotten much of a look at his face—he could be almost any pilot. And they couldn’t have traced the car.

  Or could they? He frowned. Anything was possible and he’d stayed alive by believing anything could happen. The FBI commanded much larger resources than any state law enforcement, plus they could field helicopters. And put up roadblocks. With that thought the Sandman changed lanes and took the next exit at the town of Rocky Mount. Making the green light, he slowed to the posted speed limit and headed east on Highway 64.

  Truax very gently took the photo and held it up to the light, looking carefully. It was the way the man was standing. His posture. Axe had seen it a hundred times before. Stood next to him, in fact. He peered at the face. The cap and sunglasses obscured most of it but the downward angle of the camera had caught part of the cheekbone and the chin. Axe nodded. It was him.

  “Axe.” Karen Shipman’s voice was soft.

  Unmistakable. Impossible—but unmistakable.

  “Axe.”

  Truax handed the picture back and exhaled.

  “So you know this man?” Abbot prodded. “Who is he?”

  Axe looked at Jolly Lee. “Stormy.”

  The other pilot’s mouth literally dropped open and his eyes widened. He’d personally known Kane very slightly. But by reputation . . . the man was, or had been, nearly a legend in the closed world of
fighter pilots. Of course. That chin.

  “Stormy?” The agent sounded impatient. “That’s this guy’s name?”

  Both pilots were still staring at each other.

  Axe finally glanced at Abbot. “That’s his call sign . . . like a nickname.”

  “So?” the agent looked from one to the other. “So who the hell is he?”

  Doug Truax exhaled, folded his arms across his chest and stared out of the window. “Kane,” he finally replied. “His name was John Kane.”

  “I don’t get it,” Abbot frowned. “Why ‘Stormy’?”

  “Hurricane. Hurra–Kane . . . Stormy . . . get it?”

  “Not really.”

  “And every bit as dangerous as one,” Jolly Lee added.

  Axe shook his head slowly. “That’s how he got the name. Utterly ruthless bastard when it came to fighting. Weapons School Grad, triple-war combat vet . . . not a finer pilot alive.”

  “Right. I’m terrified.” Abbot tapped the picture. “But is he capable of doing this?”

  “No. He’s dead.”

  The agent rolled his eyes. “Okay. If he was alive could he do this? All of this?” He waved a hand at the pile of maps and papers.

  Axe met Jolly’s eyes, then glanced at the agent. “Oh yeah, he could do it. He could’ve done it all and things you wouldn’t even think of. But you’d better pray to whatever god you believe in that I’m wrong. That this”—he pointed at the picture—“is just an amazing look-alike and a horrible coincidence.”

  Fighter pilots, Abbot had learned, often hid behind a shallow façade that masked much deeper feelings. In the brief time he’d known these two men, he’d never really seen them serious. Now as he looked from one to the other, he realized they weren’t just serious—they were visibly shaken.