by Wesley Cross
“Mike is missing?” blurted Ryan, interrupting. “That’s weird.”
“Yeah,” said Chuck, “for all we know he might be dead, too.”
“Wow.”
“Also, according to our FBI friend over here…” Chuck pointed at Greg. “One of the people who ambushed the safe house might have been a cyborg.”
“Aha,” said Ryan, nodding. “Wait, what?”
As Chuck filled in Ryan on the details of the ambush he’d heard from Constantine, the SUV pulled into a driveway of a small red brick house. Evergreen bushes partially blocked the front yard from curious eyes.
“Remember,” Greg warned them as they were getting out of the car, “I’m the only one talking.”
Having met Mike Connelly and witnessed what he was capable of, Chuck was half expecting to see another super spy. The fifty-something-year-old waiting for them on the porch looked nothing like a spy. He was a slightly overweight man with a graying beard and thick glasses named Jesse Klein.
They shook hands and went inside the house, leaving the driver the unpleasant duty of staying guard outside in the cold.
The house had a feel of the home of an older couple whose kids had already moved out. Chuck saw a few pictures of two boys on the mantelpiece and a family photo taken somewhere in the tropics. A much younger and leaner looking Jesse with a short blonde woman by his side and two little boys playing in the sand by their feet.
Chuck took a seat at the end of the long worn-out leather couch as he listened to Greg tell the story to Jesse.
Something was bothering him. He felt the same mental itch he’d always had when he was working a case. There were pieces of a puzzle floating somewhere in a dark corner of his brain that at some point would connect themselves, letting him see the whole picture. He never was able to force that process. Once he told Ryan about how he felt. It’s like a washer-dryer that locks itself and doesn’t open until the cycle is over, joked his partner then, but Chuck knew Bill had been right. It was exactly how it worked.
“I didn’t see any canceled meetings for the President,” he heard Jesse saying.
“I’m afraid he’s not taking this seriously enough,” said Greg, “or at least he’s refusing to make any publicly visible moves. What do you know about the timeline?”
“Not enough,” said Jesse. “We know that the initial plan called for the final stages to come sometime in March, but it looks like they’ve accelerated the pace since then.”
“How much time do you think we have?”
“I don’t know,” said Jesse, “but my guess is two weeks. Maybe less. Connelly was a great source. We have a couple of other players in Engel’s organization, but no one is as capable as Mike, I’m afraid.”
“I need hard evidence,” said Constantine, shaking his head. “I need you to turn over every shred of information you’ve got so I can go after Alex.”
Chuck watched Jesse scrub his beard with his fingernails for a moment, his face an unreadable mask.
“I’ll give you everything I’ve got,” Jesse finally said, “but you won’t have anything concrete in time.”
“I have latitude to put any resources on this,” said Greg.
“You won’t make it in time,” repeated Jesse. “What we need is to get a little creative.”
“Creative how?”
“I have an empty oil tanker floating in the international waters in the Atlantic not too far from here,” said Jesse almost apologetically.
Chuck watched Greg’s face as the director digested what he’d heard.
“A black site,” finally said Constantine. “Are you telling me you have a fucking black site just outside of New York?”
“Like I said, I have an empty tanker floating in the Atlantic that we can make a use of,” said Jesse, shrugging. “Besides, if we have a brewing coup, it’s hardly the time to get sensitive about tickling some corporate executive.”
“He’s not just some corporate executive,” said Constantine, raising his voice. “He’s a fucking celebrity. What do you think happens when we let him go? You think he’ll just go away?”
“Look.” Jesse put up his arms as in defense. “If I thought we had other options I wouldn’t have suggested it. But I don’t think there are other options.”
“And if…” Greg raised a finger. “And it’s a big fucking if, I agree to it, who’s going to do that? He’s got a medium-sized army guarding him, and I’ll never get approval for using the Bureau’s resources for something like that.”
“You might,” said Jesse, “but you’d have to speak to the President directly. But if you can’t, I can put together a team in under 48 hours.”
Everybody stayed quiet for some time, trying to process what was just said. The washer-dryer in Chuck’s head was now spinning at full speed, its cycle coming to an end.
“Hey, sorry,” said Bill Ryan, smiling apologetically. “Can I use the loo? Got frozen outside while waiting for these guys.”
“Use the one on the second floor,” said Jesse, “second door on the left. The one down here doesn’t flush properly.”
“Let me try the President,” said Greg. “Let’s see if I can get myself fired today.”
Chuck sat up straight, trying to block out the noise. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into the right places; all he needed was a little more time.
The gunshot came from somewhere above, and Chuck saw Constantine stumble and fall back. A small round hole appeared in his right temple. The driver rushed in through the front door as he heard the noise, only to dive down onto a worn-out rug with a bullet in his chest.
Everything seemed to slow down as Chuck reached for his own gun, seeing with a corner of his eye as Jesse dove for cover. It was too late.
“I wouldn’t do it if I were you, partner,” said Bill Ryan walking down the stairs, a gun in his hand pointing at Kowalsky’s chest. “I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if I have to.”
The washer-dryer cycle had run its course and the doors were unlocked for Chuck to see, but the laundry was definitely dirty.
CHAPTER 38
Jerry cursed under his breath when the alarm went off. He swatted the snooze button and closed his eyes trying to stay in the dream he was having. There was some hot blonde, he remembered, but the more he tried to fall back asleep, the less sleepy he felt. He groaned and opened his eyes. The dream left him horny as hell, and he turned to his wife, who was still quietly snoring at his side. Jerry dragged the blanket down and pulled on her cotton nightgown, exposing a large, saggy breast. He squeezed it with one hand, watching her face as he played with it.
She stirred, still asleep, but didn’t push him away. Encouraged, he put his lips around her soft nipple and slid his hand between her legs. He fumbled with her panties for a moment, but then his fingers found the soft warm flesh.
“What the fuck, Jerry,” she said hoarsely, then pushed him away. “It’s five o’clock in the morning.”
He squeezed her between the legs, but she pushed him away again, this time hard.
“Leave me the fuck alone,” she said, turning away from him. “Go check on the kids, and don’t you have to go to work?”
Jerry sat up in bed, his frustration quickly overpowering his lust. He put his feet onto the floor, put on his slippers and went to the kitchen.
He put the coffeemaker on and turning on the lights. Their small house was perched on top of a mound offering an unobstructed view of the rolling hills to the east. It was still dark outside, but the cloudy sky had already taken a purple hue, and he stood by the window for a moment watching the colors change. He then turned on the lights and made two large cups of coffee and two pieces of toast with butter, utensils looking like toys in his large, rough hands.
Bonnie would be up soon, he knew, the smell of coffee inevitably guiding her to the kitchen. They always had breakfast together before he would leave for the factory, and she would stay a bit longer, making breakfast for their three kids, then, after dropping them off
at the local daycare, going to the factory herself. Sure enough she stumbled into the kitchen shortly, her hair a big mess, blinking against the bright light.
“What’s gotten into you?” she said, sitting and taking a few sips of coffee. “I wish I had your energy. All I want to do in the morning is sleep. Thank God, it’s Friday.”
“It’s not hard,” he said, smiling. “When you wake up next to that sexy body of yours.”
“Shut up,” she said, smiling back. “I’m fat and old. Turn on the TV, will you? I want to know what the weather’s like.”
He turned on the small flat panel on the wall, switched to the Weather Channel, and brought his attention back to the cup of coffee.
“You’re on the wrong channel,” she said, glancing at the TV. “I don’t wanna watch no politics in the morning.”
Jerry frowned, looking up at the TV. The Seal of the President was displayed on the blue background.
He picked up the remote and pressed Channel 3. The picture blinked as the television re-tuned to the channel, and there it was again, the Presidential Seal.
Jerry clicked through few other channels, getting the same result on every station.
“What’s going on?” his wife said, concern creasing her features. “Is there a terrorist act or something?”
A stern looking man appeared on the screen, announcing an urgent message from the President.
They listened to the man for a few minutes. When the speech was over, Jerry found himself standing next to the TV. He couldn’t remember getting up.
“I don’t understand anything. Martial law? And where is the President?” Bonnie said. “What’s going on?”
“Somebody tried to overthrow the government, but failed, it sounds like,” Jerry said. “That’s why they’re hiding the President. They don’t know if they got everyone.”
“What should we do?”
“Stay home,” he said, “call in sick, or whatever, and keep the kids home, too. Lock the doors and get the shotgun out of the pantry.”
“Oh my.” She waved her hands. “Jerry, you’re scaring me. They said there’d be a curfew. Where are you going?”
“I just want to talk to the sheriff,” he said. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, I promise.”
Jerry started the old Bronco and pulled out onto the road. Samuel Prichard, the local sheriff, lived at the foot of the hill with his wife and an ailing mother-in-law. Jerry picked up the speed as much as he dared, staying away from the edge of the road with a deep ditch. The snow had accumulated in the gutter, making it seem level with the rest of the road, but he knew better.
He drove by a few houses, most of them dark at this hour, their inhabitants blissfully unaware of the impending turmoil. The large barn-shaped house of the sheriff was as lit up as a Christmas tree. A few cars were left on the front lawn, people going in and out of Sam’s house with purpose. Most of the cars were local Jeeps and SUVs, but Jerry felt a chill going down his spine when he noticed a Humvee with a mounted 50mm gun parked at the edge of the woods.
He drove onto the lawn and got out of the car. A few familiar faces nodded their hellos as they saw him. Everyone was carrying.
“Jerry,” he heard someone call out, “what the fuck are you doing here?”
He turned around and saw Sam Prichard, wearing winter military fatigues instead of his usual bomber jacket and a wide-rimmed sheriff’s hat.
“Hey, man,” he said as the two of them shook hands. “What’s going on? I listened to the announcement on television, but it doesn’t sound like the whole story.”
”I don’t know much more than you do,” said the sheriff, “only that there was an attempt of a coup.”
“I heard that part. But what’s happening here if it’s over?”
“My orders are to put the town on lockdown and establish a perimeter. We’re setting up two checkpoints to block the road in or out of town. Sounds like there might have been some support for the conspiracy from some parts of the military.”
“You think the base,” Jerry trailed off, trying to process what he’d heard.
“If the base is a part of it,” said Sam, “we’re screwed. All I have is a dozen men and one heavy machine gun. All I can do is scare off some opportunists from out of town, but let’s be honest here, not much else. I better get back to it. You should go home and stay put.”
“I could help,” Jerry volunteered.
“Go home, Jerry,” said the sheriff, turning on his heels and walking away.
Jerry watched him order his men around. They were piling into the trucks. The small convoy pulled out of Prichard’s lawn and went down the road. Jerry could see them splitting up at the T-juncture, Humvee going to the left, the rest of the vehicles to the right.
He climbed back into the Bronco. The engine coughed a couple of times and finally started. Jerry sat still for a moment trying to decide what to do. Part of him wanted to catch up with Sam Prichard and the rest of the gang. He was a good shot, and it looked like they could use another man.
He knew that Prichard was right. If the base wasn’t involved in the coup, the sheriff could certainly handle himself, but if the army was involved, there was absolutely nothing they could do. They would only get themselves killed.
Jerry put the car into reverse, pulled out of the sheriff’s lawn, and turned around. He was going back to his wife and kids, he decided. This was the most important job right now.
CHAPTER 39
“What’s going on, Max?” Helen asked. Her blue eyes studied Max’s face with concern.
They were sitting in a small café just a block from his apartment, strategizing.
“It’s been over two weeks now since Jason got arrested,” Max said, “and I still don’t even know where they’re holding him.”
“How much faith do you have in Charles Weiss?” she asked.
“He’s the best defense attorney money can buy,” he said, “and he owes me. But he hasn’t gotten anything tangible either. Did you have any luck tracking the FBI guys?”
“Yes and no,” she said. “I’ve found the guys who picked up Jason. But as far as information, everything has been in complete lockdown since the coup. I think most of the systems are disconnected from the net entirely. I can’t even hack into their public server. But I don’t think he’s being held by the FBI.”
“How so?”
“Because they’re refusing to talk to Richard Weiss. Whether or not he could get him out of custody is almost irrelevant. But the fact that they wouldn’t even acknowledge holding Jason to one of the most prominent defense lawyers in the country is beyond weird.”
Max thought about what she said for a while.
“That’s possible, I guess. And I’m afraid that opens up a lot of scary possibilities,” he said. “I think initially Alex Engel just pressured somebody in the agency to get Jason locked up without any evidence in hope he would scare him into incriminating himself.”
“We both know that Jason is smarter than that,” she said.
“I think you’re right. The problem is, one of the charges was cyber terrorism,” he said, “and the coup happened right after he was arrested. With the level of paranoia not seen since 9/11, it’s possible that Jason is being waterboarded right now somewhere far from the reach of defense attorneys.”
“Shit,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Yeah,” he said, putting his face in his hands. “It’s all my fault. I got too carried away with this Robin Hood bullshit. He was in pain, and I wanted to help, and look where it got him.”
She grabbed his hands with hers and pulled them away from his face.
“Look at me,” she said forcefully, fixing him with a stare. “First of all, Jason is a big boy and he could’ve walked away from this plan at any time.”
“Yes, but—”
“More important,” she interrupted him, “this country, this world, needs people like him, like us. The government is a joke, and c
orporate sharks like Engel are taking over. If we don’t stand up to them now, soon we’ll have cameras installed in our bedrooms and bathrooms, and people will disappear in the middle of the night if they whisper something that doesn’t fall in line.”
“You and your communist ideas,” said Max, smiling.
“I’m not a fucking communist,” she said, “and don’t make it into a joke. You’re better than that. The free market that made this country great is no longer here. You can’t open a small business and thrive anymore. Big corporations are getting bigger and small guys are dying out. It’s not capitalism; it’s a dictatorship in disguise. It’s worse than fucking communism. At least those guys didn’t pretend they were building a free society.”
“You are right,” said Max. He was mesmerized by her passion. “But what do we do to find Jason?”
“We break into the agents’ houses who arrested him,” she said without flinching. “If we can’t hack into the system from outside, we must be able to find something from the inside.”
“As crazy as it sounds, I think it’s a good idea,” he said, standing and throwing a few bills onto the table to pay for their meal. “At the end of the day, if we get caught, it’s more fun to get water boarded next to your friends. Let’s do it.”
They went back to Max’s apartment and set up a workstation. It made sense to start with the older agent, Christopher Toro. The man was a divorcee who lived by himself in a studio apartment in Brooklyn Heights. First, Helen hacked into the building’s network and connected to its surveillance circuit, then came the mind-numbing task of documenting Toro’s movements for the past few months.
Max and Helen took turns watching the security tape on fast forward, looking to understand Toro’s schedule.
“It seems pretty straightforward so far,” said Max after a few hours of watching, “works most days, takes no days off, has kids every other Saturday. Not much of a social life.”