The Black Directive (P.I. Jude Wyland Thrillers Book 1)

by Blake Dixon

  Moore nodded. “All right. I won’t include it for now,” she said. “But if your lead doesn’t pan out soon…”

  “I hear you. Thanks, Agent Moore.”

  She gave a real smile. “Natalie,” she said. “Or Nat.”

  “Jude.” He held a hand out. “Same side, right?”

  “Same side.” She shook firmly.

  “Great,” he said. “And I know I promised to get out of your way, but do you mind if I use your … uh, closet a minute?”

  Her brow went up. “Sure, if you tell me why.”

  “Phone call. I’m about to make Ray a very unhappy man.”

  “You know, I’m kind of on board with that.”

  He managed a smile of his own. “Not surprised,” he said. “You still have to work with the son of a bitch.”

  Her laughter lingered in the space after she left and closed the door.

  Chapter Twelve

  To say that Ray Rubin wasn’t happy was a severe understatement.

  “You’ve lost your goddamned mind, Wyland.” The venom in his voice practically oozed through the phone. “There’s no way in hell you’re bringing Garrett Kane into this investigation.”

  “Yeah, I am,” he said. “You hired me to find the girl. This is how I’m doing it.”

  “With a fucking psychopath. Who killed your partner.”

  “Who was my partner, before Sarah.” Much as it pained him to admit, he and Kane had worked well together in the beginning. Before the man hit his stride and found his true calling as a cold-blooded killer — which was just fine with the CIA. They needed people like Garrett Kane in the shadows. “More importantly, he was deep cover inside the Black Strings for a full year,” he said. “And he got out clean.”

  “So? I thought we agreed the merc angle was a setup.”

  “We can’t rule them out. You said it yourself,” he said. It was easy not to mention the information Moore had given him about the current governor, and how the mercs were already involved in manipulating the upcoming race. “Kane is the only way to make sure, one way or the other. And you know it.”

  Once again, Ray’s pause was too long. “It’s impossible,” he finally said. “You’ll have to find another way. We can’t use Kane.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I gave him the black directive.”

  Son of a bitch. Exactly what he’d done to Sarah.

  The black directive was Agency-speak for a total blackout on an agent’s life — scrub everything, make it seem like they never existed. Sometimes the brass employed the protocol when an agent died during a highly classified investigation, like Ray had claimed when he erased Sarah. More rarely, the black directive was used on agents the CIA wanted to vanish, to erase their own accountability.

  If Kane was dead, Ray would’ve said that. So that left cutting him loose. But he knew damned well the deputy director would never let Garrett Kane truly disappear. He was too dangerous … and he knew too much.

  “Where is he?” Jude finally said.

  “Out of reach.”

  “Where, goddamn it?”

  The deputy director exhaled slowly. “A hotbox in the Bahamas.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Ray.” Hotbox — more Agency-speak, for a black site prison that made the Russian Gulag look like a tropical vacation. He had no love for Garrett Kane, but no one deserved that. “How long’s he been there?”

  An uncomfortable silence, and then: “Three years.”

  “Three…” He trailed off and gritted his teeth. The maximum stay in a hotbox was supposed to be three months, and that was only for extreme cases. Anyone who did the max typically came out broken beyond repair. He’d have laid odds on Garrett Kane surviving three months intact, but this was inhuman.

  Kane was never quite the monster they told him he was. But three years in a hotbox might’ve given him a violent shove over the monster line. Still, he was the only solution to a case that had become larger than the little girl at its heart.

  And Jude would do anything to save that little girl. Even work with Kane.

  “You’re getting him out,” he finally said. “I need him.”

  “I don’t have the authority—”

  “The hell you don’t.”

  He heard Ray drum his fingers on a desk. “Fine. I’ll get you a pass for a provisional executive release,” he said. “But that psycho bastard is your responsibility, not mine. He stays with you at all times. If anything happens, it’s your ass. You’ll have to fly down to get him.” More finger-drumming. “And Wyland … when you’re done with him, he goes right back in. Got it?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am. Completely.” His tone was frigid. “You want to use him, you’ll put him back where you found him. That’s the deal.”

  Jude clenched a fist. “All right.”

  “It’s a four-hour flight. If you leave soon, you can be back tonight. I’ll have Agent Moore arrange a private jet.” There was a dull thunk in the background. “If he gets away from you, Wyland, I’d highly recommend that you shoot him in the back. He wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to you.”

  “Yeah,” Jude said through his teeth. “I got it.”

  “I’ll fax the release to the Norfolk office and send a copy to the Bahamas facility. You’re on your own from there,” he said. “And I want a report when you’re back with Kane.”

  “You’re not my superior anymore, Ray.”

  “No. But I will be, from the moment you assume responsibility for a CIA asset.” He could practically hear the deputy director’s unpleasant grin. “Article 62b. Look it up … Special Agent Wyland.”

  He didn’t have to. The son of a bitch was right. He was subject to recall if he participated in a situation that involved taking command of classified Agency personnel. The article was supposed to cover emergencies by giving former agents a layer of deniability if, say, they happened to overhear foreign intelligence or stop a terrorist act. But this still qualified.

  “Looks like hell froze over, after all,” Ray said. “We’ll talk soon.”

  The phone went dead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Gulfstream took off from Langley Field just before six. Jude might’ve at least looked forward to four hours of quiet time to focus on the case, but he didn’t even have that.

  Ray had ordered Agent Natalie Moore to fly to the Bahamas with him.

  She was just as furious about it, and he didn’t blame her. The deputy director had pulled her from an active investigation at a crucial time, for no damned reason. But the rancor in the air didn’t exactly make for a relaxing flight.

  The cabin was roomy, sealed off from the cockpit where the pilot and co-pilot were busy minding their own business of not dropping this bird into the ocean. At the front, four rows of luxury theater style seats, two on each side of the aisle, faced a big-screen television mounted above the cockpit door. Behind the chairs were tables with bench seats, then an executive center with wet bar, mini-fridge and microwave, and networked printer-fax. Two lounges faced each other beyond that, and finally the large bathroom at the back.

  Jude had taken one of the tables and worked on his laptop, with all the files he’d been able to copy before they left spread out around him. Natalie slouched in one of the forward seats, glaring at the dead eye of the TV screen.

  About an hour into the flight, she got up and walked back to slide into the bench seat across from him. “Against my better judgment, I don’t blame you for this,” she said.

  “Gee. Thanks.” He looked over the laptop screen at her. “Did you want something besides an offer of backhanded forgiveness? I’m also accepting sarcastic compliments and thinly veiled threats today.”

  “Fresh out of those,” she said with a smirk. “I don’t suppose you’re getting anywhere with the investigation?”

  “No. But hold on a sec.” He pushed folders around until he found the printout he’d finally managed to make of the assailant sketch from the restau
rant this morning. “Any chance this guy looks familiar to you?” he said.

  She took the paper, stared at it a minute. “Sorry,” she finally said. “Is he a suspect?”

  “Possibly, or an employee of a suspect. He tailed me earlier today and tried to warn me off the case. Threatened to kill a waitress.”

  “Sounds like a charmer.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He retrieved the sketch and set it aside. “More like coward,” he said. “The bastard rabbited before I could get a look at him.”

  Natalie shifted and reached into a pocket. “Speaking of bastards, I forgot to give this to you.” She set something on the table next to his laptop.

  A brand new CIA badge.

  He made no move to touch it. “Well, merry fucking Christmas to me,” he muttered. “Thanks. It’s just what I always wanted.”

  “Why did you get out?” She cocked her head slightly. “I mean, I heard you were good. Really good. On the executive fast track.”

  He snorted. “Is that what you heard? Tell me this, Agent Moore. Why do you stay in?”

  “To save little girls from sick kidnappers,” she said quietly.

  “Right. And how often does that particular opportunity come along?”

  “Often enough to make it worthwhile. I know you used to believe that.”

  He tipped his head back and blew a breath at the ceiling. “Look, don’t try to fucking profile me,” he said. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Let me guess.” He glowered at her. “You read my dossier.”

  She held up a finger. “Jude Robert Wyland, 35, originally from Providence Forge, Virginia. Joined the Marines at eighteen, one year in a forward unit, three years Special Forces. Then the CIA. Nine years total. Six months national intelligence, black ops for three and a half years, and the remaining five in narcotics and organized crime. Inactive for three years. Mother deceased, father—”

  “A fucking vegetable,” he cut in with a snarl. “One brother, whereabouts unknown, one sister missing and presumed dead. Oh, and let’s not forget those issues with authority figures, and the personality scores on the high side of the sociopath scale. But don’t worry. My shrink says it’s just because I have a vivid imagination.” He slammed the laptop shut. “Thanks for reducing my life to a goddamned fact sheet. I needed that.”

  “And despite all of that, a man with absolute dedication to the job in front of him, real emotional depth, and the patience of a saint.”

  He blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Basically, I was trying to apologize for being such a bitch to you so far,” she said. “In my own emotionally constipated way. If I were you, I wouldn’t have put up with my bullshit for this long.”

  He could feel the anger attempting to slip away. So he let it, for now. “Fine,” he said. “I did mention I was accepting sarcastic compliments today. But you lied to me.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yeah. Said you were fresh out.”

  “You’re right. I did.” She smiled. “So … truce?”

  “I have a condition.”

  “I’m not going to like it, am I?”

  “Probably not,” he said. “When we get there, I want you to wait on the plane while I extricate our guest.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake—”

  “I mean it.”

  “Gimme a break here, Wyland!” She slammed a fist on the table. “Look, I get it. The place is horrific, this Kane guy is dangerous, a lot of rough trade going on, blah blah female agent bullshit. I didn’t peg you for the protect-the-little-woman type.”

  He stared at her. “You finished?”

  “Bite me. I’m going in with you.”

  “You’re really not,” he said. “I need to talk to Kane alone.”

  “Why, so you can fire off a bunch of macho crap about how he’s not going to lay a finger on me or else?”

  “No.” He waited until she looked at him. “Because he killed my female partner.”

  She went very still. “Oh,” she said. “Er. How about I wait on the plane for you?”

  “Good idea.”

  He settled back and opened the laptop again. The next three hours were going to be long ones.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jude had the unpleasant experience of visiting a hotbox in Cuba once. He’d been on sentry detail at a black site during a training operation, and the senior agent in charge had sent him into the small on-site prison with a package for one of the guards. Ten minutes inside was enough to understand why the unofficial term for these places was ‘hell squared.’

  And the Bahamas hotbox already seemed worse than the one in Cuba.

  There was nothing on this island except the black site and a whole lot of forest. The site had a landing strip, a training field, administrative building and commissary, living quarters, and this place — a brick box of a building set far back on the cleared property, mounted with spotlights and surrounded by razor wire. Inside, the whole place was dark, damp and foreboding, with bars and locks everywhere. More medieval dungeon than modern prison.

  At least Ray’s executive release had gone through. They didn’t seem happy about it, but no one tried to throw up any roadblocks when Jude explained why he was here. Now he stood with one of the guards in front of a thick steel, riveted door past a row of empty cells, waiting for a second guard to join them before they’d let him in to see Kane.

  They hadn’t mentioned why they needed two guards. Or why so far, Garrett Kane seemed to be the only prisoner here.

  “Solitary back there,” the guard said, jabbing a thumb at the door. “Well, technically that’s every pen in the place. No cellies allowed. But this wing is extra-solitary for … let’s say, difficult prisoners.”

  “Yeah. That sounds like Kane.” He still couldn’t believe the man had been here for three years. And he didn’t want to imagine what kind of shape his old black ops partner was in, after all that time in a place like this, but he was about to find out anyway. “How long has he been in extra-solitary?”

  The guard raised an eyebrow. “Oh, he lives there. Permanently.”

  He barely had time to process that before hollow footsteps sounded and the second guard came down the corridor, past the empty cells. Like the first, he was burly and heavily armed. This one carried a small blue plastic jar with a screw top in his hand. He stopped in front of them, held the jar toward Jude. “You’re gonna want some of this,” he said.

  He took it. Menthol salve, the kind coroners used to mask the smell of dead bodies. “So what, you just leave ’em where they die in solitary? Or is Kane dead?”

  Both guards laughed. “Nah,” the first one said. “He’s still kicking.”

  “Then why would I need this?” he said slowly.

  “You just do.” The second guard shrugged. “Use it, or not.”

  Anger kindled in his gut. He decided to hold it in reserve until he found out more, but he suspected plenty. “No, thanks,” he said, handing the jar back.

  “Your funeral.” Guard number two nodded, and the first one detached a large, slotted key on an iron ring from his belt to unlock the door. “Admin says you need to debrief the prisoner, so we’ll let you go in alone and talk to the asshole,” he said. “Cell’s the first one on the right, intercom to your left next to the door. Buzz when you’re ready and we’ll take him out and prep him.”

  Jude gave them a withering stare. “What, both of you?”

  “Thought you said you knew this guy.” Shaking his head, the first guard turned the key in the lock. There was a grinding double clank, two deadbolts drawing back. He gripped the U-shaped door handle and glanced back. “Hold your breath.”

  The door was a slider on ratcheting tracks that made it sound like an old castle drawbridge when it opened. Beyond was a massive rectangle of almost perfect blackness.

  Seconds later, the stench hit him like a fist.

  Jude gagged and reeled back, clapping a hand to his mouth. Rotting cada
vers had nothing on that smell. It was old sweat and body odor, stale spilled blood, piss and shit and vomit, all stewed and festering in musty confinement — the essence of suffering, distilled and aged like wine in a barrel.

  The guards were laughing again. “Hey, pal. I warned you,” the second one said.

  “Gentlemen.” A raw, cracked voice drifted from somewhere in the darkness. “Is it feeding time already? I’ll pass. I just ate yesterday.”

  A fresh surge of anger nearly escaped him. Jude composed himself and lowered his hand, fighting to deal with the awful stench and the violent revolution in his stomach. “Does he even know I’m here?”

  “He’s on a need-to-know basis. And he doesn’t need to know.”

  “Christ.” Jude closed his eyes to keep his fists from continuing the conversation, and then looked toward the blackness. “Put a light on in there.”

  The guard near the door opened a wall panel and threw a toggle switch. There was an electric hum, and dirty yellow light flickered behind the door frame.

  In response, Garrett Kane let out a pained grunt. “Did I accidentally do something right again?” he called in that terrible raw tone. “My apologies, Edgar. Come in here and let me make it wrong.”

  “Fucking shut your hole,” the second guard snapped.

  Jude had heard more than enough. “I’m going to talk to him,” he said, already moving toward the door. “And no matter what he says, I’m taking him with me. Stay here so you can prep him for release.”

  Neither guard said a word. He stepped through and the steel door ratcheted shut behind him, closing him in with the smell.

  And with Kane.

  It was a long moment before he could force himself to turn to the right. When he did, his first impulse was to buzz the intercom, go back out there and snap the guards’ necks. No matter who he’d killed, no one deserved this.

  The cell was maybe six by six, and that was a generous estimate. Cement floor, cement rear wall, steel side walls, iron bars on the front. Ten-foot ceiling with a caged low-watt light bulb. A single thick metal rod ran the width of the cell in the center, six or seven feet off the ground — and a pair of manacles was attached to the rod, about three feet apart. Two thick chains secured to an iron ring bolt in the center of the floor, ending in more manacles. Which were currently clamped around Kane’s bare ankles.