Don't Order Dog: 1 (Jeri Halston Series)

by C. T. Wente

  The logical expression of this precaution will be the use of clandestine teams to carry out the Corporate State’s more egregious initiatives. These teams, comprised most likely of top minds from both the public and private sectors as well selected military personnel, will act as the lethal claw of the Corporate State and the hidden face of inter-corporate terrorism.”

  61.

  Jeri closed her father’s book and laid it on the sleeping pad next to her. Her body ached from lying in the same position for what was now several hours, but she quickly put it out of mind. There was too much else to think about. She clicked off the flashlight and focused her thoughts within the darkness of her cramped metal cell. As the drone of the engine echoed steadily beneath her, the fragments of an explanation slowly began to come together.

  It was all beginning to make sense.

  Jeri was so engrossed in her thoughts that she barely noticed as the vehicle began to slow. A sudden bump in the road jolted her back to reality. She braced her hands against the sides of her small cell as the vehicle abruptly rolled to a stop. A moment later the sound of footsteps echoed above her, followed by the metallic click of a key entering a lock. Suddenly the ceiling above her swung open and the darkness inside her tiny cell was replaced by the blinding light of day. Jeri covered her face with her hands and squinted up at the harsh light. Through her fingers she could make out a lone figure kneeling over her, his silhouette all too familiar.

  “Take my hand.”

  Jeri slowly reached up and grabbed Chip’s large hand, surprised by the old man’s strength as he pulled her gently to her feet. She stepped out of the small container and stood up stiffly as her eyes darted apprehensively around at her surroundings. They were standing in the back of a large service van, the interior stripped nearly bare. On both sides, a collection of old hand tools hung from the walls. Looking down, Jeri could see that the cell she’d been locked inside was nothing more than a large tool compartment concealed within the floor. She then looked out the open back doors and gasped. The van was parked near the edge of a high bluff. Outside, a stark landscape of mountains and desert spread out before her, filled by a wide lake of placid, cerulean blue water. Looking closer, Jeri realized the lake was in fact a bay, its calm surface punctured in the center by a handful of small, desolate-looking islands.

  “I apologize for the accommodations,” Chip said quietly. “We didn’t have any identification for you, so we had to improvise.” He handed her a cold bottle of water. “Here, drink that. It’ll help with the soreness.”

  Jeri looked at the bottle suspiciously before twisting off the cap and taking a quick taste. She realized as the water touched her lips that she was ravenously thirsty. A gust of hot, dry wind blew into the van as she drank the bottle. “Where are we?” she asked, tossing the empty bottle onto the floor of the van.

  “Mexico,” Chip replied, admiring the view below them. “That down there is Bahia de los Angeles, and that beautiful body of water is the Sea of Cortez.”

  “Okay, great,” Jeri replied as she gazed out at the view. She then turned and stared at him coldly. “So is this where you’re going to kill me if I don’t give you what you want?”

  Chip looked at her with a remorseful expression. “I know what happened at

  the saloon seemed a little extreme, but you needed to experience it firsthand.

  It’s standard procedure for everyone we bring in.”

  “Bring in? Bring in?” Jeri shouted. She reached out and pushed him roughly against the side of the van. “Bring into what? Your agency?”

  Chip caught himself before slamming against the wall and looked at her in surprise. “Look, I know this is all very confusing, and I’m sorry. I wish we could have done this differently, but we simply ran out of time. Let me finish explaining.”

  “There’s nothing left to explain, Chip. I’ve already figured it out. Tom Coleman was right– you and your code-named team of freaks are nothing more than mercenaries. You’re the hidden face of inter-corporate terrorism hired by large companies to do their dirty work. You and your men are responsible for the deaths of innocent people… including five researchers whose only mistake was working for Petronus Energy. Am I correct so far?”

  Chip nodded his head slowly. “Mostly.”

  Jeri reached down into the compartment she’d been trapped in and grabbed her father’s book. “You were right, my dad was brilliant,” she continued, pointing the book at him threateningly. “He predicted thirty years ago what the world was going to become, and he was right. No wonder you didn’t want him to publish his book! You wanted it all for yourself, didn’t you? After all, you were bored. It wasn’t easy for a big-time secret agent like yourself to suddenly give up everything and go into hiding in a quiet little place like Flagstaff. And I’m sure your new career of digging up fossils wasn’t cutting it. When my father handed you a blueprint of the future, you immediately saw an opportunity to get back in the game as you put it. That, and a two-decade jump on the competition.”

  Chip looked at her without responding.

  “It suddenly dawned on me as I was lying there, locked in that little metal box, that all of this was planned years ago. You didn’t walk into the saloon by accident a year ago, did you Chip? It was no coincidence that you first appeared just weeks after my father died. You knew my father was dead. But there was something else of my father’s – something perhaps even more important than this book – you still wanted. So you came up with this elaborate idea of getting close to me in the hopes I could help you get it. How am I doing so far?”

  “Quite well,” he replied.

  Jeri tossed her father’s book at Chip and glanced around the van. She noticed a rusty utility knife lying on the floor and picked it up. Chip watched her curiously as she quickly assessed the blade before gripping it tightly in her hand. She then looked at him with a menacing smile.

  “I have to say though, the letters were brilliant. What better way to arouse my curiosity than with some handsome, mysterious world traveler? Of course, I now know they weren’t intended just for me. All those ridiculously written letters were nothing more than Chilly’s cryptic progress reports to you… updates on where he was and how he was planning to kill his next victim. You obviously knew when the letters were arriving, just as you knew that with enough prodding I’d share them with you. No texts or emails that might be traceable by others – just simple, old-school pen and paper. Once Chilly had my interest, you had him hit me with the Polaroid of my father’s book. After that, you waited to see what I did. Or perhaps I should say you waited to see what I uncovered.”

  Chip looked at her quizzically.

  “The only thing I haven’t figured out yet is Tom Coleman,” Jeri continued, taking a step towards him. “Was he part of your plan too?”

  “No,” Chip said quietly. “At least not initially. But after I realized who he was and what he was up to, I figured out a way to put him to use. In the end, he turned out to be quite handy.” He absently thumbed through the book in his hands before fixing his pale blue eyes on Jeri. “So where did you find the book?”

  Jeri pointed the knife at him threateningly. “You’ve spent over a year of your life sitting on a barstool to get that answer – to get your hands on everything my father had hidden away, haven’t you? Well tough shit, old man. I’m not telling you.”

  Chip shrugged in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  Jeri narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t try to play me, Chip.

  You know I have it.”

  “Have what?”

  “My father’s research. Everything he collected from those years preparing for his book. Journals… field notes… boxes of recorded interviews. God knows how many sellable secrets are collecting dust on those pages. But then that was your plan all along, wasn’t it? Manipulate me into giving it to you, and then auction it to the highest bidder.” Jeri took another step forward. “I even have documents surrounding the government pension plans
that nearly got him killed. Financial statements, transaction logs, internal memos – enough evidence to send everyone responsible to jail.” Jeri paused and looked at Chip with disgust. “Or, in your case, bribe them for your silence.”

  Chip stared at her for a long moment before a small grin appeared on his face. He stepped back and suddenly erupted in laughter.

  “What the hell is so funny?” Jeri demanded. She watched as Chip tried to speak but was seized by another fit of laughter. Nearly a minute passed as he leaned against the side of the van trembling uncontrollably. When he was finally able to compose himself, he wiped the tears from his handsome, weathered face and looked apologetically at Jeri.

  “I’m sorry Jeri… I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just…well…is that really what you thought we were after? Some buried old lockbox of your father’s?”

  “Of course I did,” Jeri replied cautiously. “What else could it be?”

  Chip stepped towards her, his expression again serious. “You’re right… you did figure it out. Almost everything you said was true, Jeri – with a few notable exceptions. We’ll talk about those later. But what I can tell you right now is that we were never after your father’s journals.”

  Jeri shook her head in confusion. “Then what were you after?” she demanded.

  A hot, arid gust of wind whipped through the van as Chip ran a hand through his hair. “What we’ve always been after, Jeri,” he said as he pointed his finger and grinned.

  “You.”

  62.

  Tom sat up in his hospital bed and glared at his brother-in-law.

  “Are you insane, Alex? Me – a terrorist? That’s fucking ridiculous!”

  “It’s not ridiculous at all,” Alex replied as he took his hand off his holstered gun and reached into his jacket. “Here,” he said, pulling out a folded piece of paper and tossing it on the bed. “See for yourself.”

  Tom picked it up and looked at Alex inquiringly.

  “A copy of the confession,” Alex said, tapping on the evidence bag he was holding. “I found it pinned to your chest after I ordered my men to take you down.”

  “Bullshit… I didn’t write any fucking confession note.”

  “Initial analysis of the handwriting says you did.” Alex responded.

  Tom started to unfold the note and then paused. “So that’s why you had your men shoot me? Because I had a note pinned to my chest?”

  “No, Tom,” Alex replied, shaking his head. “You were shot because you walked out of a suspected terrorist location wearing a fucking Santa Claus costume, complete with a big bag of god-knew-what slung over your shoulder.”

  Tom stared at him with a blank expression. “You’re kidding me.”

  “I’ve got the Santa suit with your blood all over it sealed up in another evidence bag,” Alex replied as he pointed at the door. “Want me to go get it?”

  Tom looked down at the note in his hand and shook his head.

  “Read it,” Alex demanded impatiently.

  Tom gave him a venomous glance before unfolding the note and starting to read. Alex watched quietly as a look of anguish grew on Tom’s face. When he was done reading, Tom slowly laid the note on the bedside table and fell back dejectedly.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” Alex asked quietly. “You killed two of your fellow marines to save your own ass, then fabricated a very plausible lie for your superiors.”

  Tom glanced around the hospital room, quietly admiring the white, minimalistic simplicity of the space. He imagined the cleaning staff carefully scrubbing every surface of the room, killing the endless onslaught of germs that infested it. The thought gave him a strange feeling of comfort.

  “You tell me,” he replied hollowly. “You’re the fucking CIA agent.”

  Alex shook his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. For god’s sake, even your rejection letter spelled it out and I didn’t see it.”

  Tom glanced over at him. “See what?”

  “Your illness, Tom,” Alex replied solemnly, tapping his index finger against his temple. “When you got rejected by the CIA, something up here snapped. That’s when this all started. You didn’t just happen to walk into a bar where an anonymous man was sending letters and photos to the bartender. Those letters and photos came from you, didn’t they?”

  Tom looked at him curiously for a moment before laughing. “Fuck you, Alex.”

  “You created a fictitious character, took pictures of someone wearing a Joe’s Last Stand Saloon t-shirt, linked his locations and actions to some random Petronus deaths, and boom… instant terrorist. I haven’t had a chance to look into it yet, but I assume you stole the Kaliningrad tip from a Homeland Security colleague in order to complete the illusion. Before you knew it, you had a story with just the right blend of legitimate field intel and complete bullshit. Then you packaged it up and sold it to the last person on earth who should have believed you – me.” Alex paused and shook his head. “You did a helluva good job convincing me it was real, Tom. Of course, I don’t have all the details yet. Like the identity of that dumb,

  t-shirt wearing bastard you sent the care package to in Amsterdam, or how he managed to blow himself up in the hotel room. But I can guarantee you one thing – you’ll be the one that hangs for it, not me.”

  Alex turned and began slowly pacing the floor.

  “Two dead bodies in Amsterdam, Tom,” he said bitterly. “And for what? To prove you were worthy of the CIA? That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why your elaborate little plan seemed to fall apart when I told you there was no place for you in our agency. Most people would have given up at that point, but not you. You did exactly what any obsessive psychopath would do – you brought your dead terrorist back to life and dangled him in front of Jack Preston and Richard Connolly.”

  Alex glanced over at Tom with a crooked smile. “And who better to dangle him in front of? Those dumb sons of bitches were practically falling on top of each other to take a victory from the CIA. And what did they end up with?” he asked rhetorically, holding up two fingers. “Two more dead bodies, including one of your fellow ICE agents.” He stopped pacing and looked coldly at Tom. “By the way, how would you describe your relationship with Agent Martin, Tom?”

  Tom grabbed the steel rail that ran along the side of the bed and pulled himself upright. “Stop fucking around Alex!” he shouted angrily. “Right now the people responsible for all this are getting further and further away, and you’re

  standing here wasting time with these bullshit accusations! You want to catch

  the real terrorists, you stupid fuck? Start with the man at the center of this!

  Start with Chip Shepherd!”

  A brief flicker of uncertainty crossed Alex’s face. “Who?” he asked, raising his hand at Tom in a gesture to calm down. “Chip who?”

  “Chip Shepherd,” Tom replied irritably. “An old regular at the bar. He’s the one behind all of this – the killings, the letters… everything. He was there when I walked into the saloon this morning, but he wasn’t alone.” Tom paused and slowly rubbed his forehead, trying to coax the vague threads of memory back into focus. “There was another man – a huge, muscular guy. I think… I’m pretty sure he was the one who attacked me.”

  Alex shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He knew the man Tom was describing. It was the man he and his men had pulled from the utility pole on the street in front of the saloon – the same man who’d overpowered the officer assigned to guarding him before escaping. Now, hours later, an ever-expanding search for the man and his service van had turned up nothing. Even road blocks on Interstate 40 and 17 had failed to produce a single lead. It was as if the giant man had disappeared into the thin Flagstaff air. Of course, Alex had no intention of divulging this information to Tom. Nor did he have any intention of telling Tom, nor anyone else, about the conversation he’d had with the anonymous man on the other end of the laptop inside the saloon just moments before it was blown to hell. Such things would only complicate
matters further, and additional complications were the last thing this investigation needed right now.

  “So we should immediately drop all charges against you and start looking for an old drunk named Chip Shepherd, is that what you’re saying?” Alex asked sarcastically.

  Tom nodded. “We were sitting at the bar, talking,” he replied flatly. “And that’s when I figured it out.”

  Alex looked at him curiously. “What?”

  “He mentioned that the terrorist had already killed his last target, but there was no way he could have known that from the letters.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Jesus Christ, am I the only one that read the fucking letters?” Tom replied, shaking his head in frustration. “Yes, I’m sure. The terrorist referred to his victims by the name of some stupid toys, and in his last letter he said he still had one more to collect.”

  Alex’s stern look suddenly eased into a sarcastic grin. “You mean the Brainy Buddies?” He laughed and again started pacing the small room.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Tom said cautiously. “What’s so fucking funny?”

  “A terrorist who collects toys, Tom. That strikes me as very funny. Especially those particular toys. Do you know how many times my girls have pleaded with me to get them one of the Brainy Buddies for Christmas?”

  “It’s a fucking code word, Alex. He wasn’t actually collecting the damn toys.”

  Alex reached into his pocket. “Oh, but our terrorist was collecting them,” he said as he pulled out a photo and tossed it on the bed. “We found them in his Santa bag. Congratulations, Tom… you managed to get all four.”