by C. G. Cooper
“You still in Arlington?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Stay close. The way the president’s talking, whenever we find out who’s behind this, it’ll be taken care of outside of official channels. That means you.”
Cal couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Outing dirty politicians was one thing. It was hands-off. Going in and taking care of terrorists on U.S. soil was something else entirely.
“Not that I’m complaining, but are you sure that’s a good idea? Wouldn’t one of the agencies be better suited to taking care of it? I don’t want anyone changing their mind halfway in,” said Cal.
“This just got personal, Cal. I know you understand that. Let’s just call it a shift in presidential policy.”
“Fair enough. Tell the president that we’ll be ready whenever he calls.”
+++
“Did you get the bodies burned?”
“Yeah. We almost didn’t make it out in time.”
“How many do you have left?”
“Three.”
“All viable?”
“As viable as they can be.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch soon.”
Chapter 21
Litchfield Golf Course, Litchfield, Minnesota
3:25pm, December 19th
The frigid air whipped off of Lake Ripley, causing swirls of snow dust to sweep across the closed golf course. In the distance, a large engine revved, working against the brutal Minnesota snow and ice. A minute later a Ford F450 rolled into the shuttered clubhouse parking lot.
The driver stepped out in the subzero air, face obscured for protection from the elements rather than anonymity. He wasn’t worried about being recognized. No one else was crazy enough to be out in the cold. A light flashed from the opposite end of the building, and he headed that way.
Sheltered from the wind, another man, daring to smoke a cigarette, waited. The newcomer approached nonchalantly. They’d had similar meetings around town for the past year. Money always changed hands. Good paydays for the Minnesota native.
The driver of the large Ford pulled a sealed freezer bag out of his coat. “This is the last batch. The rest got shipped overseas.”
“That’s okay. This’ll be the last one we need.”
The Minnesotan was disappointed. He’d known the relationship with the strange man would end at some point, but the money was good, good enough to buy himself the truck he’d arrived in along with a couple vacations for him and the wife.
“You have the money?”
The smoking man pointed to a plain black backpack on the ground, the same kind he’d delivered every time before.
“Mind if I take a look?” asked the Minnesotan.
The smoker shrugged, unconcerned. After examining the contents of the bag, the supplier stood back up. “Looks good. Here’s your stuff.”
Taking the sealed baggie without examining it, the buyer asked, “I assume it’s the same as the others?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” He stuffed the purchase into his fur-lined jacket with his left hand. His right hand stubbed and discarded the cigarette, and entered the opposite pocket. A split second later, it came out again holding a silenced .22 pistol, that promptly spat two rounds into the supplier’s face. The lifeless body crumpled to the ground.
Grabbing one of the smaller stacks of cash, along with two tiny dime bags from his pants pocket, the buyer stuck them in the man’s oversized hand, tucking it under the body slightly.
After snatching the backpack of cash, he walked calmly to a rental SUV idling on the other side of the road. He had to get to FedEx before they closed.
+++
Springfield, VA
4:45pm
“Stevie, what are you doing home so early? You told me you’d be gone two more weeks!” screeched Mrs. Stricklin, hugging her son as he stepped in from the cold.
“Change of plans, Ma. Have any food made?” Special Agent Stricklin tossed his overnight bag on the kitchen table and grabbed a beer from the fridge.
“Not right now, but I can make you something.”
Stricklin nodded and headed downstairs to his bedroom. It was a split level, and for the most part, his mother left him alone when he was in town. It was expensive living in D.C., so he’d opted to stay in a suburb with his widowed mother. She liked having him close. He liked not having to pay rent.
After two more beers from the fridge in his room — his mother kept it stocked — Stricklin headed back to the kitchen, following the smell of shrimp and stew. Without a word, he grabbed a hunk of bread, a bowl, and ladled a bowl full of the gently simmering concoction.
As usual, it was delicious. Mrs. Stricklin, rail thin, sat across from her only son. “How long will you be home, Stevie?”
“Come on, Ma, can’t you call me Steve?”
“Sorry. I know. It’s just that you’ll always be my little Stevie.” A wistful look followed. There had been many of those looks after his father’s death years before. “So how’s work, mister big shot FBI agent?”
Stricklin shrugged. “Not bad. I was at the terrorist attack in Alabama.”
His mother inhaled sharply. “Did you get hurt? The news said there were a lot of people killed.”
Stricklin pointed to the bruise on the side of his head. “Just a bruise. I’m okay.”
“Did you go to the doctor? Do you have a concussion? Can you hear okay?”
He nodded as he continued eating, enjoying the attention. “I’m fine.”
“It’s like I told you before you went in the Marines, you’ve got to take care of yourself, son. You’re all I’ve got left.”
Stricklin hated it when she got all weepy. Sometimes he wondered if it wouldn’t have been easier if she died with her husband in the car wreck.
“Your uncle called. Did I tell you?” she asked.
“What did he want?”
“He phoned last night and said he was coming in town.”
“Today?”
“Yes. He said he wanted you to call him. I thought I’d sent you a text like you showed me, but, well, you know I mess that up sometimes.”
Stricklin simmered. It would’ve been good to have that information the night before. “I’ll call him after I finish eating.”
“Good. I know he’d love to see you. He’s always asking about what you’re doing.”
+++
Stricklin, dressed in his best suit, following the directions on his GPS, finally came to an ornately sculpted iron gate tucked back in a pricey Falls Church neighborhood. The gate squealed open. He pulled through, following the short curving drive up to the mansion.
His uncle, probably half in the bag, greeted him at the front door. “Stevie! Look at you. You look good, kid!”
Stricklin smiled. “Thanks, Uncle Pete. I appreciate you having me over. Your new place is beautiful.”
Congressman Peter Quailen looked up at his house, as if he was just realizing it was there. “Yeah, it’s not bad, right?”
Chapter 22
SSI Safe House, Arlington, VA
7:28pm, December 19th
Don Maynor parked his rented Harley, taking in the newly arrived vehicles. Grabbing his bike bag, he walked to the front door and knocked. Gaucho answered the door. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I’m here with Cal Stokes. I’m—.”
“Oh. You’re the other jarhead.”
Maynor grinned. “Don Maynor.” The two men shook. “Let me guess. Army?”
“Guilty, hombre. Name’s Gaucho. Come on in.”
Maynor followed the short Latino into the house, which now looked more like a staging area. There were weapons stacked neatly inside the dining area where Cal sat conferring with Daniel. The Marines looked up from their conversation.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” said Cal. “Have fun on libbo, Lance Corporal?”
Maynor chuckled. “Yeah. Got to see some old buddies. They even let me in Eight and I looking like this.”
> “You should’ve told me you were heading over there. My old platoon commander is with the Silent Drill Platoon. I’m sure he would’ve given you the royal tour.”
“No problem. A nice female Corporal gave me a tour in exchange for a cruise around town on my bike.”
“Sounds like I need to take dating lessons from you,” joked Gaucho.
“What can I say? I may be old, but I’m still a Marine. More than I can say for you and your Army of One.” Maynor spent a good deal of time with old vets in Orange Beach, but it’d been a while since he’d talked to the boys still holding down the fort. The old warrior felt the irresistible pull to be part of it.
Gaucho shook his head and clapped the senior Marine on the back. “You’ll sure as shit fit in around here, gramps.”
Maynor gave him a middle finger, but smiled back.
“Enough grab-assing, Marine,” said Cal, enjoying the back and forth. “Time to get to work.”
Maynor took a seat at the table. “What did I miss?”
“First things first. I know I don’t need to say this, but I will. What I’m about to tell you is Top Secret Presidential. That means that if you run off at the mouth, you will either spend the rest of your life in a ten by ten cell, or be shot in the back of the head.”
“Got it.”
“Okay. Here’s what we found.”
+++
Stricklin was halfway into his fourth glass of bourbon when they made their way to his uncle’s parlor. Quailen called it his smoking room.
“I had a special air filtration system installed. Lets me smoke all the cigars I want and not get it in the rest of the house.”
Stricklin took it all in. Coming from a modest background, the rare visits with his uncle never ceased to bring out a craving. He still remembered his first visit to New Orleans. It was in seventh grade. Quailen was an up-and-coming congressman, full of energy, enjoying the adoration of his constituency. He’d been a gracious host, taking young Steve on a deep sea fishing charter, giving him his first Hurricane on Bourbon Street, even getting him a blow job at a swanky massage parlor. “After this weekend, you’re officially a man,” his uncle had proclaimed.
He knew about the video of Quailen that was making the rounds on YouTube, racking up millions of views, but didn’t bring it up. Better to keep things cordial and enjoy the opulence that he’d always wanted.
Congressman Quailen pulled out two thick cigars, clipping both expertly and handing one to Stricklin. “Got these from a guy down in Cuba. They say he’s the best roller around.”
They sat, enjoying the musty bitterness, staring into the blazing fire. Stricklin downed the rest of his glass, nestling back comfortably into the leather armchair.
“How’s work? They keeping you busy?” asked Quailen.
Stricklin shrugged. “It’s okay. You hear that I was down in Alabama when the bomb went off yesterday?”
Quailen feigned surprise. He’d already done his homework. “You were? Was it as bad as they say?”
Stricklin grimaced. “It was pretty bad, Uncle Pete. Body parts everywhere.”
“They any closer to finding the people behind it?”
Hesitating, Stricklin searched for the right words. He wanted to impress his uncle. Despite the scandal, the media was already saying the wily congressman would probably come out relatively unscathed. The familial relationship could come in handy. “The Secret Service are a bunch of idiots. Most of those meatheads probably dropped out of the FBI Academy.” Stricklin stood up, somewhat shakily, and walked over to pour himself another drink. Quailen watched expectantly. “I’ve got my own idea, though, if only someone would listen.”
“Why don’t you tell me? Maybe I can help.”
“I don’t know, Uncle Pete. It’s still an ongoing investigation.”
“That’s okay. I know you’re a by-the-book kinda guy. I don’t want you to get in trouble,” said Quailen, apologetically. “Tell you what. I may have some information that could help.”
Stricklin turned around cautiously. I’ve got him, thought Quailen.
“What do you have?” asked Stricklin.
“No. Don’t worry about it. You’re right. The last thing I want is to get your ass in a crack. Forget I said anything.”
“That’s okay. How about I take a look? Hell, I’m an FBI agent. I know how to keep my mouth shut.”
Quailen sat pondering, but not really. He’d played his nephew perfectly. The poor kid would never have the guts to be a real leader, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have his uses. Finally, Quailen acquiesced. “Okay. But don’t tell anyone where you got this.”
He stood up and walked to the wall of books, complete with a tracked ladder to reach the highest shelves. Pausing, as if remembering where he’d put it, Quailen slowly pulled out a large, and most likely priceless, tome. From inside he extracted a manilla envelope.
“Like I said, I’m not sure this will help, but I hope it does.” Quailen handed the parcel to Stricklin, who opened it with slightly shaking hands, extracting the papers within.
His eyes widened as he scanned the contents. This is my ticket.
+++
“Anyone have any questions?” asked Cal, after finishing the latest briefing. There hadn’t been any updates from Neil or Zimmer. They were still flying blind, standing by.
“What about the bodies from Detroit? Any IDs?” Daniel questioned.
“Zimmer said the FBI’s on it, but that it could take a while.”
“What about the homeless guy? Did they get anything from him?” asked Gaucho.
“They said the guy was high as a kite. Could barely say his own name. Dead end.”
The day felt like a waste to Cal. Instead of doing something, they’d waited for updates from the vice president. Cal wasn’t good at waiting. He wanted to be doing anything but just sitting around.
“Hey, you said earlier that the kid who blew himself up in Alabama…” started Maynor.
“Lincoln,” offered Daniel.
“Right. Michael Lincoln. You said his parents thought he was up in Detroit for training.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I’m friends with some guys who are retired, but do the occasional hauling. They like the cash. Anyway, one of the guys, Lenny, he’s kind of a racist prick, but I don’t mind taking his money playing poker. Well, he mentioned something about an invite he got to go up to the Motor City. He said there was good money in it. Some kind of training for the fracking they’re doing in the Dakotas. Big business,” explained Maynor.
“Did he go?” asked Cal, hoping.
“No. He got hurt the week before.”
“What about the other truckers?”
“Nah. I asked and they said they didn’t get an invite. They told me that one of the companies Lenny hauls for is owned by a member of some Aryan club. Rumor is they only hire like-minded drivers, sometimes adding extra cargo for shipment.”
“Might be worth looking into. Do you think you could call your poker buddy and find out about the company?”
“No problem. I’ll tell him I’m looking to make some extra dough. He knows I do odds and ends,” said Maynor.
“Perfect.”
As they dispersed, Cal’s phone rang. He looked down. It was someone calling from Camp Spartan.
“Stokes.”
“Mr. Stokes, this is the SSI switchboard. I have a Special Agent Stricklin on the line. Would you like for me to patch him through?”
The hair on the back of Cal’s neck stood up.
“Go ahead.”
The line clicked. Stokes said, “Hello?”
“Stokes, this is Special Agent Stricklin.”
“What do you want Stricklin?” spat Cal, tempted to cut the call.
“I don’t want anything,” came the haughty reply.
“Then why I are you calling me?”
Stricklin laughed. “An interesting piece of evidence just came to my attention, and I just wanted to let you know that I am person
ally going to take you and your company down.”
Chapter 23
SSI Headquarters I, Camp Spartan, Arrington, TN
11:18pm EST, December 19th
“Yeah?” answered Neil, stifling a yawn. It’d been a long day at headquarters. Travis and MSgt Trent had returned earlier, both a bit impatient, but none the worse for wear. The trip to the police station was pointless for both sides, as Marge Haines’s handiwork prevented the cops from questioning SSI’s top man. The best the Nashville PD could do was put the two men — Trent had refused to leave his boss alone — in an interrogation room where they were supplied with a constant flow of coffee and donuts.
“It’s Cal. I need you to do something for me.”
“What’s up?”
“I need you to trace the phone number that just called SSI’s main line. How long will that take?”
Neil’s mind snapped into place. “Give me five minutes.”
Clearing screens in a whir, Neil clicked and typed, accessing highly encrypted telephone databases. To his genius level skills, it was all child’s play. Unlike their previous search for a needle in a haystack, he had a focal point.
“Got it.” He dialed Cal back.
“What did you find?”
“The call came from Falls Church, not far from you.”
“Give me the address.”
Neil did.
“Do you know who owns the surrounding properties?” asked Cal.
“Working on that now. The satellites images show a single property, pretty big. It’s loading.”
Neil scrolled through the tax records, which listed a corporation, Kingstown LLC, as the owner. Cross-referencing government resources, Neil clicked his way deeper into the ownership of Kingstown LLC. His finger stopped over a single name. “Oh crap.”
“What is it?”
“You’re not gonna like this, Cal.”
“Tell me.”
+++
Quailen had excused himself to make a phone call, leaving his nephew in the lounge.