Rising Phoenix

by Kyle Mills

  He was looking straight ahead. The dark alcove made the brickwork in front of him look blank. Finally he dared a look up—he felt like he had been climbing forever. The act of leaning his head back made a surprisingly drastic change in his equilibrium, and he jammed a foot back to keep from reeling over into space. His heart raced and his entire body tingled from the adrenaline forced into his system. He wanted to take a few moments to collect himself, but the burning in his forearms and calves made him press on.

  His estimate hadn’t been far off. Another five feet brought him to the foot-wide ledge under the unprotected third-floor windows. He steadied himself and carefully shed his pack, pushing it onto the ledge. Finally he pulled himself up and sat, feet dangling, on the narrow ledge. He remained there for some time, catching his breath, oblivious to his exposed position. The night was calm, and he could see the flickering lights of New Jersey in the distance Ships moved lazily across his field of vision, looking like constellations against the black water.

  Realizing that eventually someone was bound to walk by and think he was a jumper, he scooted slowly left, pushing the backpack in front of him. It was less than ten feet to the first window. He twisted precariously on his narrow seat and pushed hard on it. It didn’t move. He pushed again, wondering for a moment if he had disabled the lock on the wrong window. It wouldn’t be hard to do: The old warehouse’s design made it difficult to judge interior versus exterior features.

  He pushed one more time and it opened with a dull crack. He slid in belly first and poured out onto a metal catwalk. Pulling the pack through after him, he hurried for the stairs.

  It was dark. The only significant light came from the streetlights filtering through the windows and the second-floor office, a square box perched improbably on the second-floor wall. The Venetian blinds were closed, but glowed white with the interior light. The sound of muffled voices floated through the dusty air. He slowed his progress on the metal stairs, making no sound at all.

  Reaching the bottom floor, he rushed expertly through the maze of towering crates to the far corner of the building. He was forced to slow his pace slightly, as the pathways became narrower and the turns sharper. Finally he was stopped by a chain-link gate. He took off the pack and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters, making short work of the lock. He stuffed it into his pocket and pulled a matching one from the pack, hanging it on the dangling chain. When they came to open the gate in the morning, their key wouldn’t turn. They would be confused for a few minutes and protest that the key had worked fine the day before. Finally they would cut it off and forget all about the incident.

  Newberry padded silently into the cage and weaved through its contents, stopping at a box that looked like an old army footlocker. It opened easily after a few nails were pulled. The light was too dim to see into the box, so he reached in. His hand caressed a hard rectangular plastic bag, covered with some kind of textured tape. Duct tape, he guessed, as he pulled the first brick out.

  He sat down on the floor, making himself as comfortable as possible, and reached into the open backpack, pulling out a bundle of drinking straws. The ends of each straw had been carefully sealed with masking tape. He pulled his turtleneck over his nose and mouth and punched a small hole in one end of the brick lying in front of him. Then he pulled the tape off one end of a straw and forced it into the brick until it hit the plastic at the other end. Upending the brick, he pulled the tape off the exposed side of the straw and pulled it slowly out. It worked just as Hobart had promised, distributing the poison in a deadly cylinder through the middle of the brick. When the brick was divided and the cocaine cut, the orellanin would be evenly distributed.

  He was into his third brick when he heard movement behind him—actually, he felt it more than heard it—a stirring in the still air. Turning, he was blinded by a striking match. The hissing of the flame was deafening as it cut through the silence.

  The match was held to the end of a cigarette, illuminating a familiar face.

  “I’m Mark Beamon,” the figure said, shaking out the match, leaving them once again in darkness. Newberry couldn’t see a thing. His pupils had contracted violently in the face of the unexpected light. That had undoubtedly been the plan. Beamon’s eyes had been closed when he lit the cigarette.

  Newberry’s mind raced. He once again became aware of the weight of the gun under his arm. Beamon seemed to read his mind.

  “Don’t do it, son. You know us FBI guys—we never fight fair I got at least three guns aimed at your head.”

  Newberry carefully weighed Beamon’s words. From what he knew of FBI tactics, he concluded that it wasn’t a bluff. He looked one last time toward the gate, and freedom, as his eyes finally began to readjust to the gloom. Then he kneeled down and laced his fingers on top of his head.

  25

  The White House, Washington, D.C.,

  March 1

  “Tea?”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Tom Sherman said, holding the cup steady as Jameson poured. He took a couple of sugars from a silver tray and leaned back, stirring. The President finished his tea ceremony, pouring cups for the attorney general and FBI Director, who Sherman knew hated tea. He watched as Calahan politely took a sip and smiled approvingly.

  “I thank you all for coming so early. I’m pretty booked up during the days.” The antique clock on the wall read 5:05 A.M. “So I hear you’re the expert on the CDFS, Tom.”

  “That’s not entirely true, sir. Mark Beamon is more in tune with the details of the investigation.”

  “Yes, well, Bill apparently didn’t want to subject me to your Mr. Beamon, and suggested that I be briefed by you instead. I assume that you’re up to the task.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I hear we’ve had a major break in the case.”

  “Yes.” Sherman drew the word out longer than necessary. His tone was hesitant.

  “You don’t sound sure,” the President observed, reaching for a cookie. The others took the cue and grabbed a few for themselves.

  “It’s true that we did capture one of the CDFS’s operatives—but he isn’t talking.”

  “He won’t talk?” The President enunciated the words carefully, as though Sherman was an idiot. Undoubtedly just the effect he was shooting for.

  “I’m not sure you understand the situation, Tom,” the President said. “We have to stop these people. You have my authorization to make any kind of deal you have to.” He looked smug, as though this was some kind of revelation.

  “We’ve offered him complete immunity to prosecution and a place in our witness protection program,” Sherman said. “He’s not interested.”

  A confused look came over the President’s face. He leaned forward and set his empty cup on the table. “This guy’s gonna go to prison when you’ve offered to let him walk? I don’t understand what you’re telling me.”

  I wouldn’t expect you to, you political hack.

  “He believes in what they’re doing, sir. In his mind, he’s a captured soldier. A patriot putting America back on track.”

  The President looked around at the other two men in the room. “A little cocky for a mass murderer, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe,” Sherman replied, though the question clearly had been rhetorical. The President let it pass, but the look he gave Sherman would have filled most bureaucrats shoes with sweat.

  Sherman couldn’t bring himself to care. He had twenty years in and more money than he could possibly ever spend. The picture of him fly fishing on a quiet river surrounded by willows was destroyed when Jameson began speaking again.

  “So after one day, you’ve decided that there’s no way we can make him talk.”

  Sherman reached for another cookie. “You haven’t asked me anything about this guy, but let me tell you about him anyway. He was a cop for ten years in Atlanta. Apparently he quit to take this on. His former supervisors have nothing but good things to say about him. Honest, smart. His record’s spotless. He knows exactly what’s go
ing to happen if he ends up in prison. They’re not crazy about cops, but I expect they like the CDFS less. He’s a tough guy, but I doubt he’ll last two days.”

  “You sound like you respect him,” Jameson goaded.

  “I don’t feel one way or another. He’s willing to put himself on the line for what he believes in.”

  Another thinly veiled insult. This time Jameson pretended he didn’t hear.

  “Your recommendation?”

  “We throw some manpower at it. Track down everybody this guy knows and find the ones who recently dropped out of sight. It’s only a matter of time.”

  The Director cut in, speaking for the first time. “Mr. President—Perry and I were discussing the situation earlier. We think we have a better plan.”

  Uh oh. Sherman looked at Calahan with apprehension. The President looked with hope.

  Perry Trent started. “Bill and I feel that we should put out a press release saying that this guy’s gonna make a deal. Force the CDFS’s hand.”

  “Force their hand to do what?” Sherman wondered aloud.

  “A hit. Bring the guy in and out of the courthouse on a set schedule every day. Make it look easy.”

  Sherman’s mouth gaped, revealing a half-chewed cookie. He slowly scanned the faces of the three men across from him. They all looked deadly serious.

  Calahan continued the thought. “We can position enough men around the courthouse to guarantee catching the assassin. Maybe we’ll have more luck with him.”

  The President nodded thoughtfully. “And what’s your opinion, Tom?”

  Sherman had managed to close his mouth and begin chewing again. A thousand smart-ass comments came to mind. “This is a joke, right?”

  “You have a better suggestion?”

  “Yes. Track down all this guy’s known acquaintances. I know it’s not a particularly sexy plan, but, Jesus …”

  “Hundreds of people are dying each day,” the President began. The sympathetic tone didn’t play as well in person as it did on TV. “Drastic circumstances call for drastic measures, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Drastic, yes. Desperate, no.” The eyes of his boss and the AG bored into him. “Look, sir, there’s no guarantee that they’ll try a hit. And if they do, there’s no guarantee that we’ll get the shooter alive—at all, for that matter. And even if everything goes right, there’s no guarantee that he’ll talk.”

  Jameson buttoned the top button of his shirt and tightened the tie that had been hanging loosely around his neck. “As I see it, we’ve got nothing to lose here. If they don’t try a hit, we’ve in essence taken your road.” He pointed to Sherman. “If they do and you kill the would-be assassin, or he won’t talk, it’s still a productive operation. I assume that having two suspects will narrow down your search significantly. Won’t it?” The President looked pleased with himself for that piece of detective work.

  “Yes,” Sherman conceded.

  “Unless you have a better suggestion—and by better, I mean a faster way to stop these maniacs—I believe we’ve found our course of action.”

  Sherman shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His resignation was on the tip of his tongue, but something was stopping him from uttering it. “Yes, sir,” was all he could get out.

  “They want us to what?”

  Beamon actually jumped from his chair as he spoke.

  “Sit down, Mark.”

  He ignored the advice and began pacing violently around the small conference room.

  “You told them no way, though, right?”

  Sherman’s tone was sarcastic. “Yeah, Mark. I told Calahan, the President, and the AG, no. And they said, ’Hey fine, if you don’t want to do it, we won’t.’”

  Beamon ran his hand through his hair as he marched across the room, grabbing what was left on his crown. He stopped and stood motionless in that position for a few seconds. “Why are you still here, Tommy? All you talk about is retiring. I’d have thought this would be the perfect opportunity.”

  “I guess that, when I was faced with it, I just wasn’t ready to leave.”

  That was a lie and Beamon knew it. He wouldn’t pull out and leave an old friend twisting in the wind. It just wasn’t in him. He went for the chair across from Sherman, deciding to let the subject drop. “Got any aspirin?”

  “Took my last five an hour ago,” Sherman replied. They both giggled like schoolboys.

  “So what do you think, Mark?”

  Beamon pulled at his lower lip. “None of these young guys gets hurt.” He was referring to the team of agents assigned to protect the suspect. “If you and I don’t have the guts to stand up to the President, we’ve gotta be the ones in the line of fire.”

  Sherman nodded in agreement. “This is gonna blow up in our faces, you know.”

  “Oh, man,” Beamon slurred through the unlit cigarette clenched between his lips.

  26

  Baltimore, Maryland,

  March 2

  “There they are.”

  John Hobart followed his partner’s gaze up the street. A red Nissan Maxima sat inconspicuously between two other cars parallel parked on the quiet, tree-lined street.

  “They were there yesterday,” Swenson continued, pointing to a narrow side street along Hobart’s east property line. “And there on Tuesday.”

  Hobart grunted an acknowledgment, pulled back around the corner, and walked back to his Jeep.

  His house was perched on a steep, one-acre lot. The trees scattered across the property were old and plentiful, blocking the structure from view. Hobart had taken his privacy seriously, even before his recent change in profession.

  He turned the key in the ignition halfway and punched a button on the CD player. A Bach concerto surged through the interior of the car as he watched Swenson stroll casually down a side street, finally turning and leaving his line of sight. Hobart leaned forward and looked at the sky through the front windshield as raindrops began to slap the glass.

  The wind started to pick up, gently rocking the Jeep. Sturdy-looking trees bowed submissively as the first thunderclaps echoed down the streets. Hobart smiled. The large, well-kept houses surrounding him were almost invisible now, obscured by the coming darkness and thickening wall of water. The weather gods were smiling down on him. The street was deserted.

  The shrill ring of his cellular phone interrupted his musings. His partner was on the other end.

  “There’s no sign that anyone’s been in here—it’d take a wizard to beat your security system. I walked around the grounds. No sign of anyone there, either.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Whenever you are.”

  “I’m coming in.” Hobart flipped the phone closed and laid it on the seat next to him. He started the car and moved slowly around the block, passing close to the parked Nissan and turning up his driveway. He couldn’t see the expression on the faces of the Nissan’s occupants, but he could detect excited movement in the car as he passed. A feeling of relief passed through him. Amateurs.

  Hobart hit the garage door opener well before getting to the house and was able to pull in without pausing. He hit the button again and watched his rearview mirror to see if his admirers had followed him up the drive. They hadn’t.

  Climbing out of the Jeep, he pulled on a Gore-Tex jacket that had been lying in the back seat, and escaped out of the garage through the side door. The rain hadn’t let up, and his boots sank in the softened earth. He struggled through his thickly landscaped backyard and alongside the house, finally stopping in a dense group of trees. In theory, his position should have given him an unobstructed view of the front door about twenty yards away. Through the storm, though, all he could see was the dim glow of the carriage lights.

  Hobart crouched down and waited. The driveway was the only practical entrance to his property, due to a tall wrought-iron fence protecting the perimeter. While the fence had been installed by the previous owners for aesthetic effect, its arrowlike pinnacles effectively discouraged climbi
ng.

  He didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes after he took up his position, two shadowy figures could be seen hurrying up the steep drive. About halfway to the front door, one of them broke off and positioned himself twenty-five feet to the right of the door. The man stood motionless next to a tree, melted into it by the rain.

  Hobart walked carefully along the edge of the lawn, staying out of sight. He stopped ten feet behind the figure. The man’s shoulders were broad, and well-defined muscles could be seen through the cheap suit plastered to his back by the downpour. A .45 dangled loosely from his left hand.

  Hobart crept up behind him. His feet made an inevitable sucking noise as he moved, so he walked slowly, stopping at odd intervals to mask their rhythm. The combination of the noise from the storm and the man’s focus on the door made him an easy target.

  He stopped just behind the man—so close that he had to control his breathing for fear his quarry would feel it on the back of his neck. Gazing down at the man’s gun, he confirmed that his finger was not on the trigger.

  In one swift motion Hobart grabbed the gun, switched hands, and pressed the barrel into the man’s cheek. The man stood in the same position as before, except that his eyes strained right—focused on the barrel of the gun.

  Hobart grabbed his shoulder and pressed down. The man sank slowly to his knees and then lay face first in the deep mud. Hobart knelt over him, keeping the barrel behind his ear, and watched the activity at his front door with silent anticipation.

  The other man, who was still only a vague form to Hobart, had moved to within a few feet of the front door and was standing on tiptoe, peeking in a large bay window. He stood like that for almost thirty seconds, despite the downpour from the overflowing gutters. From that position, he reached over and rang the doorbell, and then pressed his back against the wall next to the door.