Contract to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  Along the Mexican border, American citizens were being kidnapped and slaughtered on a near-daily basis. Naturally, the pencil pushers wouldn’t get their hands dirty, but that was fine. Mason would do it for them.

  Time hadn’t diluted the rage he felt toward Alfonso Alisio. If the rumors were true, and Mason had no reason to suspect otherwise, that pudgy Mexican troll had personally tortured Special Agent Hutch to death. Hutch was hardly the first ATF or other federal agent to fall prey to narco-traffickers’ sadistic brutality, but what Alisio had done to Hutch was especially monstrous. His men had chosen a streetlight two blocks from the ATF’s field office in El Centro and suspended Hutch’s body from a meat hook.

  Mason shook his head at the memory. He’d been in El Centro at the time and seen his friend’s naked form swinging in the wind. It had barely been recognizable as human. Ironically, Hutch’s murder had played a key role in the genesis of the November Directive.

  He’d first met the ATF agent in Afghanistan inside one of Bagram’s dining facilities. Hutch and several of his fellow ATF special agents were seated at a table, and Mason asked if he could join them. Hutch hadn’t hesitated in saying yes. It turned out he was an explosives and arson investigator for the ATF. Mason remembered being surprised to hear the ATF was in Afghanistan, but it made perfect sense, given all the ordnance they were finding. Hutch had been genuinely interested in BSI’s role in OEF. Although they hadn’t been able to talk specifics at the time, they’d both realized they should be working together. Two weeks later, the brass approved Hutch’s attachment to Mason’s unit. A friendship for life was forged that day, one that survived twenty-two missions.

  Tonight’s operation, however, would be quite unlike Mason’s work in Afghanistan, for he and Hahn planned to profit personally from doing his country’s dirty work. Mason supposed the general idea had percolated in his subconscious for years. But it had coalesced into an actual plan when Ramiro passed on the duffel-bag intel. Instinctively, Mason had withheld that information from the old man. And now, tonight, the opportunity was at hand for him and Hahn to reap their reward. And why not? Why shouldn’t they enjoy a windfall? Five years ago, he’d played by the rules and finished last. He’d taken one for the team, leaving Afghanistan in disgrace, and for what? A $100K salary? Peanuts. The old man made millions every month.

  The box of cash he’d discovered in Mullah Sanjari’s compound had opened his eyes to a different future. He didn’t have to be a drone for the rest of his life. He and Hahn had dripped blood on Afghan soil and never received Purple Hearts, valor medals, or theater ribbons. The “real” military got all the recognition and accolades—and the benefits to boot. Mason hadn’t come home to veterans’ benefits, access to the VA, or a college fund. Federal disability or life insurance? Forget about it. A big goose egg. No insurance carrier would touch him, and for good cause. PMCs died with frightening regularity, even post-combat duty. Contractors like Mason and Hahn were five hundred times more likely to commit suicide than the rest of the public, and he almost had.

  Okay, his paychecks had been bigger than those of his coalition counterparts. But why shouldn’t they have been? After all, he and his men took on the assignments the coalition forces couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do. All told, Mason’s platoon had been the target of seventeen IED and grenade attacks and more than two dozen sniper potshots. That didn’t count the two deaths he’d taken eliminating the Taliban mortar teams after raiding the Sanjari compound. His own wound had been far more serious than he’d first thought. Had he not reached Bagram in a timely manner, he would’ve bled out. Only vascular surgery had saved his life.

  Very few people knew of the dangers facing private military contractors until March of 2004 when four Blackwater PMCs were ambushed and murdered. Their mutilated bodies were set on fire and dragged down the streets of Fallujah in a grisly parade of savagery. That could’ve been me and Chip.

  Now he was fighting a different kind of war. A war in which criminal cartels were equally as ruthless, just not as visible. In Mason’s mind, the only difference was the language they spoke. Terrorist assholes were assholes, in any part of the world.

  He took a deep breath and forced himself to focus on the present.

  Laptop in hand, Chip reentered his office, but his friend’s face didn’t display its usual emotionless pallor.

  “What?” Mason asked.

  “We’ve got big trouble.”

  “Show me.”

  Chip opened his laptop and set it on Mason’s desk. “The red line represents Toby Haynes’s movements over the past hour. Look at the time stamps where his vehicle was stationary.”

  Mason’s body tensed and his face hardened. That dumbass. “Change in plans. Grab our tactical bags and call Darla. We’re moving out in thirty seconds.”

  CHAPTER 9

  On the way to Hickman Field, Harv broke the silence. “We’re flirting with big trouble here, Nate. You know that, right?”

  “Amen,” Holly added.

  “Toby asked for our help. He’s afraid for his life, and Mara’s. Turning our backs on them won’t sit right with me.”

  “I’m not saying we shouldn’t help,” said Holly.

  Nathan felt a twinge of irritation. “Then what are you saying?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Look, I’m not planning to wage a war against Mason and his legion of mercenaries . . . excuse me, private military contractors. We’re looking for a way to put the guy behind bars—ideally without Toby’s testimony.”

  “I have a feeling that’s not going to be easy,” said Holly.

  “Doing the right thing is rarely the easy thing.”

  “I haven’t heard you say that in a long time,” Harv said. “I’d forgotten how good it sounds.”

  He started to respond, but Harv interrupted.

  “In fairness to Holly, she’s got a point. Maybe we should let the police handle this.”

  “Thank you, Harvey,” she said.

  “And we will,” Nathan said. “I just want a look first.”

  “I’m not worried about taking a look,” Harv said. “What I’m saying is, we shouldn’t underestimate BSI. They aren’t just a bunch of yahoos with guns. They’re highly skilled and many of them are OEF combat vets who have recon-level training. A company like BSI has a huge budget for ammo, mock-up exercises, survival training, you name it.”

  Nathan glanced at his friend. “Yeah, I know. I loaned Toby the money he needed to attend the academy.”

  “Did you know the founder’s from New Mexico too?”

  “No.” Nathan paused. “Then I guess it’s likely he knows my father.”

  “That’d be George Beaumont, and yeah, I’m pretty sure he does. I think they were in the Korean War together.”

  Nathan wanted to ask how Harv knew that, but it didn’t matter right now. He pulled out his smartphone, called up the BSI company web page, and quickly navigated to George Beaumont’s bio. “You’re right, they were, and in the same unit. Beaumont’s a retired major.” Next, he skimmed the company-news page. “It says here that late last year, Beaumont signed a lucrative contract with the federal government. Private security for high-risk facilities.”

  “Makes sense,” said Harv. “In many cases, it’s actually cheaper for the government to subcontract security work. Does it say what kind of facilities?”

  “Oh, nothing too important,” Nathan said. “Just all the ATC towers at airports, a couple dozen nuclear power plants, and various federal buildings. What do you think a contract like that’s worth?”

  “With the way the DOD throws money around and the lack of adequate oversight, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to think it could reach nine zeroes.”

  Nathan rubbed his forehead. “I suppose that could’ve been us.”

  “How so?” Holly asked.

  “During the First Gulf War, Harv and I c
onsidered going that route, like BSI. I guess we’re still contractors for security, but only with civilian companies.”

  “That’s true, but some of our clients make toys for the military. It’s a little nebulous, but we’re not directly supplying personnel to the feds.”

  “Let’s keep it that way. Holly, when Toby mentioned Tanner Mason, you acted like you’d heard of him.”

  “I’m familiar with BSI. It’s become a huge company with several international satellite offices. Actually, the Bureau’s considering using BSI to protect our DC headquarters and some of our larger field offices.”

  Nathan took another look at his smartphone. “I don’t see anything about that here. Has the contract been finalized?”

  “No, and it’s confidential at this point.”

  “Do you know anything about Tanner Mason?”

  “I’m more interested in talking about Mara.”

  That’s twice she’d deflected a question. “What about her?”

  “It’s pretty clear you two . . . know each other.”

  “We dated for a while. Before I met you.”

  “So you do have a history?”

  “Well, I wasn’t exactly . . . celibate. But I wouldn’t call it a ‘history,’ necessarily.”

  “Don’t you think it’s interesting that a woman you used to date just happens to be in Toby’s apartment? What are the odds of that?”

  “I’m . . . not sure what to say.”

  “You’ve got good taste. She’s incredibly beautiful.”

  “So what was she doing with me, right?”

  Holly looked back over the seat at him. “Relax, Marine, I’m just being a jealous girlfriend.”

  “No need for that. Seriously. She’s ancient history. Ancient.” Nathan smiled and raised his eyebrows. “We good?”

  Holly nodded. “We’re good.”

  “So,” he said, addressing both Holly and Harv, “for the last time, does anyone know anything about this Tanner Mason guy?”

  Harv answered first. “Not a whole lot. I’ve seen him a couple times at conventions. He’s kinda hard to miss. Long blond hair, athletic. He had a short career as an MMA fighter, so he carries a bit of celebrity with him. Last year he was at BSI’s booth at Shot Show. I actually saw him sign some autographs, but I didn’t talk to him.”

  “What’s your take on the guy?”

  “He has a condescending demeanor. The few times I’ve been around him, I got the distinct impression he thought of himself as a superior life-form.”

  “He sounds like an asshole.”

  Harv gave a noncommittal shrug. “If he shot two handcuffed men tonight, then I guess that speaks for itself.”

  Nathan turned to Holly again. “And you? Anything at all about Mason?”

  “All I can say is he’s on the FBI’s radar screen.”

  “All you can say? Was that before or after tonight?”

  “Both, it would seem,” she said. “I can tell you that the Bureau’s done plenty of due diligence on BSI, including Mason. But if Toby’s right and he’s responsible for a double murder, then that BSI contract with us is probably toast.”

  “Right,” Harv agreed, “and that’s to say nothing of the bigger contract already in place with the government. It sounds like there’s tons of money at stake. Toby’s concern for his life definitely has merit, but let’s avoid being the next casualties in whatever Mason’s doing.” Harv slowed the car. “We’re almost there. What’s the plan?”

  “The first thing,” Nathan said, “is to be sure no one but the victims are out there.”

  “I concur,” said Harv. “We should conduct a thermal scan of the entire area before we go in. The rain and patchy fog will help us get in and out undetected.”

  Nathan nodded. “Hickman Field seems like an odd choice, doesn’t it? There’s got to be a reason Mason picked that location.”

  “Right,” said Harv. “If he didn’t want anyone to know about the murders, he would’ve killed them privately and disposed of the bodies.”

  “So why didn’t he?” Holly asked. “If Mason wanted to make a public statement, there are much better places to leave the bodies.”

  “Maybe it’s a territory thing,” Nathan said. “As far as I know, Kearny Mesa doesn’t have a serious crime problem, so a couple of bodies are bound to stick out in a big way.”

  “I think what we’re saying,” Holly said, “is this wasn’t a spontaneous act by Mason. And based on them replacing the cut padlock alone, we can conclude premeditation all the way. No one carries a spare padlock around.”

  Harv made the turn onto the road fronting Hickman Field. “This is it, on the right.”

  As they passed the main entrance gate, a general lack of activity made it obvious no one had reported the murders. If anyone had, the place would’ve been swarming with police.

  Nathan took a look with the thermal imager. “I’m not seeing any warm signatures out there. Keep going, Harv.” Nathan consulted his phone again. “Looking at some satellite photos, I think I know the best place to park and approach the fields. There’s an industrial area bordering the north side of the complex. Let’s be on the lookout for surveillance cameras. There are bound to be a few around.”

  As Nathan suspected, most of the low-rise buildings had cameras mounted on their parapets and all of the parking lots between the buildings were brightly lit.

  “Keep going, I see a good spot,” said Nathan. “Just a little farther.”

  They approached a smaller industrial building that looked unoccupied. Its doors and windows were covered with painted plywood.

  Nathan studied the surrounding area for any movement and detected none. “What do you think about parking in here? The only downside would be a security patrol noticing a newly parked vehicle and recording the license plate. But this place looks inactive.”

  “I’d say it’s low risk,” Harv said. “We’ll be in and out in fifteen minutes.”

  They stayed close to the building and walked toward the wrought iron fence surrounding Hickman Field. Nathan brought his night-vision up and scanned the soccer fields again, just to be sure. All clear.

  “Ready?”

  “And if they aren’t dead?” Harv asked.

  “We call it in,” Holly said.

  “I’m already on it.” Nathan patted his carry bag. “I’ll use the voice-morphing program on my laptop. I can completely change my voice, even into a woman’s.”

  Holly shook her head—in amazement or dismay, it was hard to tell which.

  Harv winked at Holly. “He did consider working on Broadway.”

  “Easy, now,” said Nathan. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

  “Can we be serious about this?” said Holly.

  “Here’s the plan. If by some chance one of them is still alive, we’ll call 911 and request a bus. I’ll use my laptop to create the morphed voice, then we’ll play it back into a pay phone, assuming we can find one.”

  “I guess that’ll work,” Harv said, “but use the word ambulance, not bus.”

  Holly crossed her arms and made an involuntary shiver.

  “We’ll make this quick. Here, I’ll give you a boost.”

  A few seconds later, they were over the fence, walking toward the site of a double murder.

  CHAPTER 10

  Philippine Sea—fifteen days earlier

  From an aft deck outside the bridge, the captain of Yoonsuh, a seventy-meter South Korean–registered luxury yacht with a draft of nearly 1,700 tons, watched the skiff approach the stern of his boat. In the distance, he saw the faint lights of the Namkung Khang as it continued its journey south to Palau. His radar indicated there were no other contacts within range. A low-pressure front was moving in from the north, but they’d easily outrun it. Everything looked good.

  The skiff’s operator
maneuvered the small craft up to Yoonsuh’s stern diving deck, and a crew member secured its lines.

  A state-of-the-art vessel in every respect, Yoonsuh had been retrofitted with supplemental diesel tanks, extending its range to forty-five hundred nautical miles at cruising speed. All told, the yacht carried more than forty thousand gallons of fuel.

  As he always did, the captain made sure the skiff’s special passenger received first-class accommodations. His stateroom suite had a home theater with access to more than two thousand movies and TV series. In addition, there were four women aboard who were highly skilled masseuses. And the food? World-class. The two-week journey to the California coast would be lived in extravagance.

  The duffel bags were transferred into the closest of six bedroom suites, where they were stacked against the bulkhead. A little later, they’d be moved into a secret double-hull compartment used for smuggling. The modification to the yacht had cost over $1.2 million, but it was a small price to pay in the event Yoonsuh were ever boarded. No one but the crew knew the steel deck above the keel had been elevated by two feet, creating a sizable smuggling compartment. The only way to access it involved removing the desalination system, a painstaking operation that required a hydraulic jack to hoist the ship’s boiler. His crew practiced removing and replacing the boiler on a regular basis and had the procedure down to a science.

  Everyone aboard held proper ID and passports, even the new passenger. The few times Yoonsuh had been boarded in US waters, the Coast Guard never found anything out of order and the ship was allowed to continue on its voyages.