by Dan Hampton
“Fuck me,” he whispered.
To her credit, Major Shipman didn’t kick him. She just looked surprised. “What was that?”
Axe blinked. Then blinked again and realized he was holding his breath. “ ‘A man like this.’ That’s what you said.” They were looking at him like he was crazy. Shaking his head, he turned to the FBI agent. “Your folder, with the Womack files . . . lemme see it.”
“Stupid,” he muttered, flipping through the pages. “Fucking stupid.”
“What?” Abbot demanded.
“ . . . right here all the time . . . stupid.”
Jolly frowned and the others just stared at him. “Here!” Axe triumphantly pulled a piece of paper from the back of the folder. Running his eyes over it, he tapped a section and again shook his head in disbelief. “Right here.”
“You gonna share this or keep it to yourself?” Lee sounded irritated.
Axe looked up, his eyes bright. “The name John Kane used in Texas. Do you remember?”
“Tyler,” Karen Shipman sat up, staring intently at him. “Dan Tyler.”
Waving the paper slowly back and forth, Axe nodded. “And Womack made a complete legend for a Daniel Tyler . . . from Dallas, Texas.”
“But . . . that . . . that’s the mercenary file,” John Lee stammered.
David Abbot, however, sat back down and swallowed hard. “Shit,” he breathed out slowly.
“Exactly,” Axe leaned against the desk, gripping it hard with his free hand. It was so impossible that he didn’t doubt it for an instant. It was also the only answer to all their questions, in both cases.
“John Kane is the mercenary.”
Chapter 25
The Sandman emerged from the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel just past sunset. Passing Fort Monroe, he was able to exit on Mallory Street just before traffic stopped in the normal I-64 rush-hour gridlock. He’d detoured long enough to swing through Suffolk and retrieve the Irish identity papers from the his bank box. The delay had put him squarely in peak traffic. Turning continuously north and east, the mercenary worked his way through Phoebus toward Buckroe. Passing through the park, he turned on First Street to head north with the beach and the Chesapeake Bay off his right shoulder.
The houses were typical beachfront. Mostly wood, generally old, and too close together. This part of Virginia was old by American standards and Buck Roe Plantation had been used for silkworms and tobacco as far back as 1619. As he drove past a quaint bed-and-breakfast, the trees and tight neighborhoods suddenly opened up onto the Salt Ponds. In the daytime, the fuzzy green earth ran right up to the beaches and the bay. A constant salty breeze mixed with the smell of fish for a distinctly Chesapeake landscape. But now the bright lights of expensive waterfront homes were reflected off the placid waters of the pond and it was completely dark.
A few hundred feet farther, the Sandman turned left and entered the marina. Following the roundabout, he drove slowly past the main pool and offices to the back of the parking lot. The light poles were only at the corners, which created a dark zone in the middle of the lot. Stopping on the back row, he parked facing the Water’s Edge Bar and Grill.
Sitting for a few moments with the lights off, he just watched. Several cars came into the lot but their occupants got out and headed into the restaurant. A couple, fairly tipsy and obviously feeling no pain, stopped to grope each other by a white Jaguar before tumbling inside and driving off. Sliding out of the car, the Sandman stretched his cramped muscles and took a few deep breaths of the heavy sea air.
Pulling his bags from the trunk, he checked the car’s interior, then locked it. Cars were left here all the time by the yacht-club crowd and boaters, so one more would attract no attention. Slinging the larger bag over his shoulder, the mercenary walked down past the white painted resort buildings and, avoiding the lights, entered the slip area.
Several boats were lit up and the sound of laughter carried easily across the water. One man, dressed in a light blue windbreaker and shorts, was coming toward the clubhouse and they nodded to each other as they passed. Another couple, dressed for dinner, also passed and greeted him. There were five floating docks arranged in typical T fashion and the Sandman calmly strolled to the fourth one. There, at on top of the T, was the Wanderer.
Several hours later, after a hot shower, three potpies and a liter of Pellegrino, the Sandman finalized his preparations in the main salon. A black wetsuit was laid out on the polished wood deck, complete with booties, mask, and fins. He then brought out the diving gear and carefully checked the BCD, regulator, and tank. Into a fine mesh dive bag he dropped a roll of duct tape and a waterproof case containing a pair of night-vision goggles.
Then he went to work on the failsafe. This was an emergency escape option that he always had, in any situation, in case the shit hit the fan. In the past five years he’d only used it once, but knew, with no doubt, that it had saved his life.
In this case, the mercenary unstrapped the emergency signaling case from the bulkhead and opened it. Leaving the breech-loading pistol alone, he removed two of the 12-gauge flare shells from the padded lining as well as a single Mk -7 handheld flare. Taping the two shells halfway down the flare’s body, he then cut several lengths of heavy-gauge wire and reinforced the tape. He now had a simple but very effective detonation device that, if dropped into one of the Wanderer’s two engine scavenge ports, would cause a massive explosion.
Sitting back on the padded bench that ran along the starboard side, the Sandman opened another Pellegrino and looked around the salon. He’d grown up with boats and had always loved them. A boat was a refuge. A boat was independence and freedom of movement.
Knowing the military, he was assuming that all sorts of alerts had gone out and security had tightened to a stranglehold. It was the sort of heavy-handed overreaction they did best.
Which was precisely why he would take the boat around Floods Hole into the Back River. There used to be moorings all along the Brittain Point side of the river and if not, he’d simply anchor. Either way, it was less than a six-mile sail from where he now sat. A bare half mile from there, right on the water, lay General’s Row, home to Kenneth Allen Sturgis.
John Kane took another sip and stared at the bulkhead. Sturgis was the last one. He could’ve overridden Halleck and Neville all those years ago, and more to the point, he could’ve immediately dismissed Heidi Smith’s phony accusations.
But he didn’t.
The mercenary could picture the man, rubbing his fat little hands together over the whole thing. A perfect reason to keep the man he needed around, regardless of the personal impact. And a chance to stick it to a fighter pilot. Everyone was well aware of Sturgis’s most obvious dislike—he did little to hide it. Still, the thought that a general would do this to an officer who’d given so much over the years was unimaginable to Kane himself.
The shock of it, the betrayal, had left him hollow. He’d always believed in the brotherhood of fellow flyers, even those who weren’t fighter pilots. They’d all still taken the same oath and wore the same wings. To have that shattered and discarded in the name of politics was a body blow. It had been replaced by a cynicism and coldness that would never leave.
He had decided to put his papers in and retire. He’d done enough for the Air Force and the country, so it was time to live free of all that. Maybe go to the airlines or one of the big defense contractors—just get away and live life with his family.
But the
y’d taken that too.
Neville, the Smiths, Halleck . . . and Sturgis.
Exhaling, he forced the latent rage back down and swallowed hard. He knew Sturgis had to give the keynote address at the Commander’s Conference tomorrow. The general would never miss a chance to stand up and be important. His ego wouldn’t let him miss it. So he’d be at home on General’s Row, secure on the base, surrounded by people who would protect him.
The bulkhead clock read 2105—five minutes past nine P.M. Stifling a yawn, he got up slowly. Time to check over the dinghy and then get underway by eleven P.M., as it would take about two hours to cover the distance and anchor the boat. He’d plan on visiting the general anywhere between 0130 and 0200. Wanderer could clear Flat Gut to the Chesapeake Bay by 0430, and they’d be through Lynnhaven Roads and out in the open waters of the Atlantic by 0700.
Topside, he paused at the top of the companionway and listened. The faint echo of music drifted down from the yacht club and countless metal stays clinked from the gently rocking boats. Shoeless, he climbed up on deck and made his way forward to the dinghy. Once he was under way, it would trail behind the boat on a thirty-foot line, but in the narrow confines of the marina that was impractical.
A fourteen-foot Zodiac with a 50 hp motor, the dinghy had an aluminum floor and was painted dark gray over black. Flashlight in hand, he checked the engine and made certain the fishing gear was securely stowed. Night fishing was common along the bay so no one would notice one more dinghy trolling for croakers.
Removing one of the three detachable extra fuel tanks, he carefully moved forward along the port side. The Gulfstar had a big center cockpit which also gave direct access to the engine room. Opening the hatch, the Sandman carefully climbed down and lashed the five-gallon tank back in the tool compartment.
Back up in the cockpit, he closed the hatch and bent down to fasten it, then smelled the man. A nearly imperceptible whiff of old cologne that didn’t belong there. It saved him.
“Pffttt . . . pffttt . . .”
As he threw himself sideways, two silenced shots thudded into the decking where he’d just been. There was a whisper of movement from the starboard entryway off the dock, and catching a glimpse of a dark shape crouching on the deck, the Sandman rolled out of the cockpit onto the aft deck, grabbing a winch handle as he did so.
The unknown assailant was very, very quick. Instead of trying to fire over the big boom, he dove under it onto the deck, forward of the cockpit. Coming up in a classic crouch, the gun was lifting as the Sandman threw the heavy winch and immediately launched himself to follow it.
“Pfftt . . .”
The iron handle hit the man a split second before he fired, spoiling the shot. Then Kane crashed into him, sending both men thudding against the boom. The assailant dropped the pistol and savagely chopped at the mercenary’s head. Wincing from the hastily aimed blow, Kane drove his hand up in a vicious throat strike.
But the other man had regained his footing and slapped the hand away, raising his other arm up for a hammer blow. The Sandman instantly kicked for the kneecap and, as the assassin twisted away from it, his foot caught a piece of trim and he tumbled down into the salon.
Dropping through the companionway like a cat, the mercenary landed on his toes and blinked in the soft light. It was the man from the dock . . . the one he’d passed earlier with the blue windbreaker. He was crouching, but favoring his right leg. The light showed him to have regular features, dark hair and to be very fit. There was no expression on his face nor did he speak—a professional.
Stepping forward on the left, the Sandman forced him to pivot on his hurt leg. Suddenly the man’s right hand went behind his back and came out with a six-inch combat knife. Spreading his fingers out, palms down, the mercenary circled to the left. As the man’s weight shifted, Kane lashed out with his left foot and the assassin backed away. Immediately dropping down, the mercenary kicked straight out with his right leg but the man turned and the foot glanced off his shin instead of shattering a kneecap.
The knife slashed down and Sandman felt the cut even as he yanked his leg back. Instantly reacting, Kane uncoiled from the crouch and drove hard into the assailant’s chest, pressing the knife hand across man’s body. Locking it with his own right hand, Kane slammed them into the bulkhead. Off balance, the assassin tried to twist away, but his injured leg lacked the power.
The Sandman bent the man’s wrist back and slid his own fingers up around the knife, wrenching it loose. The assailant shifted again and as the right knee shot up toward the mercenary’s crotch, Kane half turned and felt his thigh go numb from the blow. The other man’s left hand clawed toward the Sandman’s eyes so he bent back away, bringing his own left elbow around to smash into the assassin’s temple.
As the man’s head snapped back against the bulkhead, the mercenary thrust the knife hard up under the sternum and, pressing the assassin against the bulkhead, shoved again with all his might, driving the blade even deeper. The man’s eyes widened in shock and he opened his mouth. Kane twisted the knife back and forth, his face inches from the other man.
Convulsing powerfully, the assassin almost broke the grip, his good leg kicking against the hull. But the Sandman held tight with all his strength and turned the blade again.
“Ahhhrrhh . . .” The assassin made one, horrible gurgle, then went limp, but Kane didn’t relax. He shifted his footing again for better traction, then, his hand wet with blood, thrust upward again.
The assassin gave one final convulsion, then sagged heavily against the Sandman. Certain he was dead, Kane gasped for breath but kept the knife buried in the man’s chest until his own breathing slowed. Withdrawing the knife, he flipped it out of reach and immediately brought his right hand up to the man’s chin. As his left hand pulled the head back, he jerked the chin hard sideways and felt the vertebrae snap. Then, and only then, did he drop the body and back away.
“So what else can we do?” Axe hung up the phone, crossed the last name off his list, and looked at David Abbot. He’d just finished personally calling a dozen Air Force and Air National Guard wing commanders on the East Coast. They now all knew about the increased Threat Condition and why, though Kane’s real identity had been kept out of it. They, and every state police headquarters from Florida to Maine had been given each of the aliases from Everett Womack’s files, including the Americans Daniel Tyler and Matt Tobin, along with a Canadian named Bonville.
“Nothing.” Abbot shrugged and looked at Colonel Lawson. “Assuming you’re all squared away.”
Lawson nodded. “No one gets onto Langley without two forms of ID, and the best pictures we have of Kane have been circulated to all three gates.”
“And General Sturgis?” Karen asked.
“We have a marked unit outside his official residence and he’s agreed to call our CP if and when he leaves, which he has no plan to do until eight A.M. tomorrow morning.”
“What about his wife?”
“He’s divorced,” Lawson replied.
“Okay then . . . I’m outa here.” Axe got up and rubbed his eyes. He hated this job. “You staying?”
Abbot nodded. “Kane instantly made the Top Ten Most Wanted, so I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that my future and his are joined at the hip.”
Axe chuckled. He’d decided he liked David Abbot. A bit straight-laced, like most Fibbies, but a smart man.
“I’m going too,” Karen yawned, and the t
wo of them left the cops to their work.
Once outside, Axe stopped and looked up. Cloudy but with big enough holes for some stars to shine through. They started for the parking lot across the street.
“It upsets you, doesn’t it?” she suddenly said. “About John Kane, I mean.”
“Yeah. But not in the way you probably think.”
“What do I think?”
“That he’s a psycho. A crazy killer.”
Surprisingly, she stopped and grabbed his arm. “That’s not what I think at all. I think he has an incredibly sad story. And I’m sorry about his family.”
He looked at her. Those eyes were still sharp but not with the casual disdain he was used to seeing. Slowly, Axe nodded. “It was a waste. He wasn’t a nice guy, but he was a brave man and a superb pilot. There wasn’t anyone I’d rather go across the line with, and he didn’t deserve what they did to him.”
“Do they deserve what he did to them?”
He sighed and looked at her. Not for the first time, Karen Shipman was struck by the range of emotions that could play across this man’s face when he allowed it. Right now he looked pensive, and sad.
“I think only he can answer that.”
She gazed at his face and nodded. It was a good answer. Suddenly she knew what she wanted. The stress of the last few days, the emotional ups and downs . . . they’d catch Kane or not, but either way it was over. Gazing up at his face, she realized he was thinking the same thing.
But she knew he’d never ask.
Smiling slightly, Karen took his arm and turned him toward her car. “C’mon. My place is closer.”
Grabbing a galley towel, the Sandman pressed it tightly over the cut on his leg. The killer had tried for the femoral artery and sliced through the quadriceps instead. Kane winced. Good thing, or he’d be looking at my dead face, he thought.